The Loyal Daughter
by Doc M
Summary: Ch. 16: Will and Augusta's fortunes take a turn for the better, with the arrival of new friends. (Ch. 17 is underway, now I have a biography of Ben Thompson)
1. The Quadroon

With acknowledgements to scriptwriter Robert Rodat for the characters from _The Patriot_ (dir. Roland Emmerich, 2000), and the main thread of the plot. To the real-life characters I have used, such as Pattie, George, Ban, Frank, O'Hara, Cornwallis, Ben Thompson, & co, I can only say I _hope_ I have not made them do anything they would not have wanted to in reality. Of necessity, Ban has had to be lowered in rank to accommodate Will Tavington as Lieutenant Colonel of the Green Dragoons. I have tried to drag the fictional universe depicted closer to historical reality, and to offer a Loyalist character's point-of-view - a perspective omitted in the film. You don't have to agree with Augusta's viewpoint, or even like her. She's not a Mary-Sue, but is the woman her experiences have made her, with a streak of her father's violent temperament.

**THE LOYAL DAUGHTER,**

**Being the Memoir of Augusta Martin**

edited by M. M. Gilchrist

**1. The Quadroon**

_Peachum:_ ...Do you think your mother and I should have liv'd comfortably so long together, if ever we had been married?

John Gay, _The Beggar's Opera_, 1728

I called my father by that name but once in my life, and that day I held a pistol in my hand and vengeance in my heart.

In 1753, when I was born, my grandfather Daniel Martin wrote my name in the great brass-locked Bible, brought from England by his French-born father when this dying century was young.1 He named me Augusta, for the month was August. Yet I was not listed among the family of his blood, but among his property:

"Augusta, dtr. to Abigale, Mulatto, house slave."

That Bible lies in ashes now, the house likewise.

My grandfather had bought my mother when she was thirteen, from Squire Drayton, her own father, at the Charlestown auction block. My father was an only son, heir to a prosperous, though not extensive tobacco and corn plantation: a wild young man, prone to violent passions. It was thus that I was begotten, when he was about twenty, and she seventeen.

My Mother told me often how in my infancy, Old Squire Martin made a pet of me, and dandled me on his knee, his "little yaller girl". But when I was three years old, he died, and there were no more games by the hearth or on the porch. My father came into his inheritance. I was raised to call him 'Master' and 'Sir', for he needed fine, white children who in turn would inherit his fine, white house. And so he married a fine, white lady from Charlestown, Mrs. Eliza.

One of my earliest memories is of her arrival at Fresh Water after the wedding. All the slaves were lined up outside to greet the new Mistress, and I recall the sighs as she stepped down from the trap, a golden-haired girl in a wide-hooped skirt of strawberry-hued taffeta. She greeted each in turn, although, of course, none looked her in the eye, for that would have been a punishable insolence. My mother was introduced to her as "cook and housekeeper". I tugged at the Missus's skirts, and she bent down to speak to me:

"Why, _hello_! What a _sweet_ little child! Such pretty curls and big brown eyes!"

"That's Augusta, Abigale's child," said the Master, in the same tone he used presently when he introduced her to his gun-dog.

"Darlin' little Gussie!" she smiled, patting my head as if I were a puppy.

"'Gusta!" I countered (all my life I have detested being called 'Gussie'), and pouted.

"Oh, how _charming_! - Benjamin, _do_ let me raise her!"

And so when the Master went off to war a few months later, leaving her with child, Mrs. Eliza made a living doll of me as the Old Master had done. She was a well-meaning, sweet-natured woman - and yet 'twas she who put a sword into my hands... She decided that, since I was intelligent and "of goodly appearance" (that is to say, what the auction bills describe as a "high yellow" quadroon), no darker than a Spaniard or indeed some of the other Huguenot families in these parts, I should be trained to be the best rank of lady's maid or even a governess. Over the years, between her many confinements, she taught me to read and write, how a lady dresses for every occasion, how she should conduct herself in Society. When the Master protested at her 'spoiling' me, she would say, "She'll fetch a better price, and, with her parentage, given she's so mighty near white, 'twouldn't be fitting for her to end in a _kitchen_!"

"She'll end in a _whorehouse_ if she doesn't learn to know her place, Lizzie!" he replied. (Had he known what lay ahead, I know he would liefer have seen his own daughter thus degraded.)

My training provided the Missus with amusement, immured as she was in the country. When we visited her father and sister in Charlestown, I waited on her, in one of her old gowns, with a lace cap on my head, and high-heeled slippers that pinched my toes more than the flat, mannish shoes I wore in the country. At assemblies, routs and dinners, I saw at first-hand how the gentry of South Carolina - including my white kindred - conducted themselves. Many a lady - my own was an exception - could have taken lessons in manners and morals from her maidservant.

I also helped teach the Master and Missus' children their letters. The eldest son, five years my junior, was a bright boy, though stubborn. In truth, I did not regard any of them as my brothers or sisters. I must never look them in the eye, nor answer back. I called them "Master Gabriel, Master Thomas, Missy Margaret" & c & c; they called me "Augusta" when they were in good spirits, or when they were in a peevish humour, "yaller girl", or worse... And I knew that even in their worst nightmares, they never dreamed that their own father might sell them on the auction block.

And Mother? Her loyalty was to the Master. He had returned from war a gloomy, morose man, all his old fury turned inward. When his wife was with child, as she often was, he still would come to my mother at night. And in the garret-room we shared (a privilege, for the other slaves lived in cabins behind the stables), even betimes when Mother and I shared the same mattress, he would come to her. And I would hide my head beneath the pillow to block out the animal sounds they made, and the things of which they spoke that I knew I should not hear. It was not as if, like Abraham with Hagar, he had a barren wife. Mrs. Eliza had taught me to be virtuous, for gentlewomen do not like their personal maids to play the trull. Yet in this very house, beneath the self-same roof as she slept, her husband and my mother...

Yet there were no more children from my mother. She taught me of herbs, wild and garden, that "bring down the flowers" - squawmint, southernwood, blue cohosh, herb o' grace, tansy, parsley seed - and much else besides of healing plants, of balms and poisons. "You will have a better life than I, Augusta," she told me. "There's a chance Widow Selton, the Missus's sister, will take you as lady's maid. You're trained for it, all ladylike, and when you're dressed up fine, you could pass for white. In the city, if you get a chance of freedom -"

"- When I know what it is, I'll gladly take it. And you?"

"I'm too old, chile. This life's all I know, Master and Missus. But you... You'll be free one day, I feel it here" - and she held my hand to her heart.

I wondered what her loyalty to the Master had cost her pride.

When I was twenty, and expecting to be sent out to serve the Widow Selton, the Missus died of childbed fever. No Indian sage nor Indian hyssop, squawmint, feverfew or green-ginger could save her. The child, a girl, was sickly, and put to nurse with Deborah, Caleb's woman, who had lately lost her own infant. But then, there wasn't one of the Master's white children who had not grown sturdy on a black breast.

And I? I was needed more than ever to help raise the children. There was no more lady's maid work, nor would there be till Missy Margaret was grown, but I taught, and sewed, and helped Mother nurse them through their childhood sicknesses. Sometimes we still would visit Widow Selton, but she said no more of buying me, though her old husband had left her a rich woman before she was thirty. She had a soft-voiced, simpering way with her, especially when the Master was with us, and I wondered how long it would take her to replace her sister (and my mother) in his bed.

I remember when we first sensed war was coming. When the Master and Young Masters had finished with the newspapers, I would sometimes steal them from where they had been stowed for kindling, and read aloud in the kitchen articles which I thought my fellow slaves might like to hear. We were little affected, I recall, by the first commotion about taxation from the white merchants in Boston and the cities. I saw a pamphlet by a wise man in England, a Dr. Johnson, who observed that the greatest yelps for 'Liberty' were coming from the drivers of Negroes... It was a true word he wrote, for there was no talk of freedom for any of our kind, at least not from the so-called 'Patriots'. The Young Master might amuse himself reading his translated Rousseau, but I'm sure knew as well as I that, once he inherited the plantation, he would need us, as his property, to keep him fed and clothed and pay for the luxury of his philosophy books. Man and woman are not everywhere born free. Some of us are born in chains, and live and die thus.

It was the news out of Virginia that first kindled the fire among those of us with wit to heed it. The Royal Governor of that Colony, Lord Dunmore had announced that he would free any slave who joined the King's cause to serve in an 'Æthiopian Regiment'... We spoke not a word of it to the Masters, but that day a hope began to burn within. Would South Carolina follow where Virginia led? But hope dwindled to a flickering glow as Dunmore's call served only to drive the planters of Virginia further into the arms of their lily-white 'Liberty', who had no embrace for people of colour... And the Governor fled back across the seas to Scotland, and built a house shaped like a pineapple, so I'm told.

Yet hope did not die entirely. In my heart, at least, I believed that, sooner or later, deliverance would come, and that the King's men would bring it. For four bitter years I read my Bible and I prayed, thinking of Miriam and of Moses; and I burned the candles with the charms my Mother had taught me, which her African mother had in turn taught her... And for four bitter years I watched for a pillar of smoke by day, and a pillar of fire by night...

The Young Master went away to fight under his father's old friend, Colonel Burwell, in the Continental Army (as the Rebels styled themselves) against the King's men. And still I waited. And there were battles won and lost, and the French and Spaniards made it a great war around the world's oceans, and still I waited.

I taught Missy Margaret and Masters Nathan, Samuel and William their letters, and little Missy Susan, who could or would not speak a word, yet seemed to understand. (That child was bewitched: at least, that was the rumour in the slave-quarters.)

For words are power. That is why the Bible says, "In the beginning was the Word". And that is why the Master had looked askance on his wife teaching me to read, for it's a power the Masters like to keep unto themselves. And I knew that that power would strengthen my hand in the fight to come... Even as months passed into years, I kept my faith...

It was May 1780, and I was in my twenty-seventh year, when we got word that the King's men had taken Charlestown. The Master spoke little of it, not even to my Mother, but when I read aloud from the Gazette in the kitchen, there was a stir.

"So you think the King's men will come set us free, 'Gusta?" asked Caleb, one of the stable hands.

"I hope so... I hope and pray so."

"- They ain't freein' slaves from _Tory_ masters!" Micah retorted.

"Maybe not. But _our_ master ain't Loyal. And every day, they're coming nearer... _nearer_...!"

"`Don't you talk that way, girl!" He thumped the table, and the crockery shook. "We got ourselves a good master! 'Sides, the young Master's fightin' with the Continentals!"

"- But it ain't _our_ freedom he's fighting for! I say, if the redcoats come, we _take_ our freedom!"

"An' if they don't?" Caleb said.

I smiled softly. "Maybe we jes' take it anyway..."

"That's hangin' talk, yaller girl!" said Micah.

"- Augusta!" Mother had come in: I knew that if she had heard what was said, she would tell the Master. "- 'Gusta, what are you talking about, chile? - This war ain't no business of _ours_!"

She had not heard much of what I had said, then...

"I was just wondering, suppose the fighting comes near here? What do you think the Master will do?"

"Sit tight, I reckon. We'll be safe enough, I'm sure."

But I could feel in my very bones that the hour of deliverance was drawing close...

We had scarce two weeks to wait.

At first we thought it was a storm in the distance... Cannonfire, said the Master, disapproving. I prayed all night. Come the morning, the children found dead bodies in the creek of soldiers of both armies.

Next night, the thunderous sound drew even nearer, even while the family ate their supper. There was a noise on the porch, and as Mother and I waited on, we saw the Master take a gun, fearing 'twas some renegade or robber. Instead, 'twas the Young Master who staggered in, wounded in the side.

"'Gusta, you fetch hot water and the staunchweed from my herb-box!" Mother shouted, as she and the Master put the young man to bed. As usual, I did as I was bidden. I helped her dress the gash across his ribs. My hands trembled - not, as she thought, from distress at his plight, but from the expectation swelling in my heart...

The Young Master had been carrying dispatches - had them still to deliver - but the Master told him he was in no state to continue his journey. Standing close to the door, waiting for further instructions, I caught snatches of conversation that told of a Rebel defeat: "Saw Virginia Regulars surrender... Green Dragoons rode into them... hacked them to bits..."

"- Augusta, will you move, girl, and put those little ones to bed? 'Tain't right they should see any of this!"

"Yes, Mother..."

I read stories to the younger children to keep them quiet, which I did gladly. I knew that it was for the last time...

I lit the candle in the garret and prayed before I turned in to sleep. I did not know what a 'Green Dragoon' looked like, but I dreamed of some kind of splendid horsemen putting the Continentals to rout, then coming to this place, to the slave quarters, bringing fire, and freedom in its wake...

I awoke, still in pitch darkness, to the thunder of the guns nigh upon us. Climbing out of bed, I peered through the cracks in the shutters out into the night. I saw the shooting flames of artillery and muskets, like the bursting of a thousand stars, just a few hundred yards away.

"Lord, what's happening out there?"

"At last, Mother! The pillar of fire! It's come!"

"That's men been slaughtered out there, 'Gusta!"

But I ignored her. "Hallelujah," I muttered. "Lord, Hallelujah!"

By dawn, the porches and grounds of the house were littered with the wounded and dying of both armies. Mother and I led the other female slaves to tend them, although there were surgeons among them. At first I wondered who had won, but then a party of redcoat infantry arrived and began to take charge. If they were the victors.... My pulse quickened.

I paid little heed to the Master's conversation with the young Lieutenant. I leaned over a wounded private, to give him a little water to drink: he was little more than a boy, in a red uniform faded to dull brown by our Southern sun. Then I heard the sound of hoofbeats - many hoofbeats, riding together...

I straightened myself, looked down the track - and a thrill swept over me.

Horsemen, such horsemen as I had never seen before, more magnificent than I had dreamed - men with black-plumed helmets and bright uniforms of scarlet and green. They reined in at the front of the house, and I saw their Colonel: a lean, straight-backed man with a fine-cut profile beneath his helmet.

He ordered that the redcoat wounded be taken away by wagon, and added, almost casually, that the house and buildings be fired, as punishment for succouring the enemy. Then - as I found myself herded up with most of the other slaves (while Mother remained on the porch with the Master and the children), he told us that, if we would serve the King's cause, we would be free.

_Free_.

The word for which I had long waited.

Poor Joshua - the stable boy, an innocent soul - replied that he was free man already. It had been a joke of the Master's, when he once gave Josh a little pocket money to spend at market... And the poor fool-child believed it.

But the Colonel smiled sardonically, and said something to the effect that he was "a free man who would have the chance to serve in the King's army". Avoiding meeting his gaze, I stared at him in all his proud grace. He was young and pale, an angel with a fiery sword... the Deliverer for whom I had prayed.

And he had told me I was _free_...

As I drank in the full import of his words, there was an ugly scene, though 'twas brief enough. In searching the house, one of the soldiers had found the Young Master's dispatch case. What it contained, I knew not, but when the documents were shown to the Colonel, he blanched and immediately sought to know who had carried them. The Young Master admitted 'twas he, but lied that he was a stranger merely sheltering among us.

"He's a spy! Take him. Hang him and put his body on display," commanded the Colonel. He also ordered that all horses be taken for his Dragoons, with the rest of the livestock for slaughter (not that there were many, Fresh Water being a corn and tobacco plantation).

The Master protested that because the Young Master was in uniform and the case was marked, he could not be arrested.

"We're not going to _hold_ him; we're going to _hang_ him," said the officer.

The Master was about to argue the point further when the Young Master let slip the word "Father", and his pretence was exposed...

"Ah, I see. He's your _son_," smiled the Colonel, and chided the Master that he should have taught the lad something of loyalty. I thought the same, but kept silent, only smiling a little to myself as I watched them...

"I beg you - by the rules of war-" the Master cried. But the fine young Colonel offered to give him a lesson in the 'rules of war' by pointing a pistol at him and at the children - which sure made him back down.

The Colonel then ordered that the Rebel wounded be killed. The Young Master was tied up by his guards. At least they were only using ropes, I thought, and not the iron chains and collars I had seen on the slaves taken to market fresh from the quay at Charlestown, even as my grandmother was brought ashore, so Mother had said...

But then Master Tom - always a hot-tempered youth, who had longed to join up with the Rebels himself - began to shout and protest. Both the Colonel and the Master warned him not to interfere, yet, foolishly, still he launched himself at the soldiers, trying to beat them off his brother...

And so the Colonel shot him:

"Stupid boy."

Well, no-one could say he had not been warned.

The Master, in a rapture of grief, gathered him, dying, in his arms...

But we were _free_... Black, brown, yellow... _Free_...

Mother hesitated at first: "I'm not leaving these children..." And even as we were jostled off, she kept glancing back anxiously over her shoulder. The ties that bound her to the Master were ties of the heart, as much as those of bondage: the last may be broken more easily than the first. I heard the Colonel order his men to make a clean sweep of the house and farm buildings. Yes, my fine horseman, I thought: a clean sweep... What were they to me? What even were the Young Masters, one dead and one a prisoner, like to hang?

- My brothers of half-blood, say you?

- Masters still, who were too high and proud to call me "sister". Masters still, who could have stood me on the auction block at Charlestown market, as my mother's father had done to her...

Yet my Mother trembled for them. I put my arm around her.

"Move along now," said a sergeant. "Not _you_, missy - the slaves!"

"That's what I am, sir," I answered.

"But you don't look -"

"Look again," I said. And this time he saw the blackness of my eyes and the fullness of my lips.

"She's my daughter," Mother put in. She was trying not to sob, and kept looking back.

She is tethered to him and his world. She will turn into a pillar of salt, I thought. Let the house burn. And the Rebels with it.

Even as I heard the volleys of gunfire as the Rebel wounded were killed, I did not once look behind me.

_Free at last_...

The further we walked, the lighter my step grew and the higher my head. Every humiliation, every fear was purged from me by blood and fire. The shadow of the auction-block had lifted, even as the smoke of Fresh Water and burning corpses shadowed the sun. There was no road back. And I rejoiced at heart.

_TO BE CONTINUED_

**Next Chapter: **Wherein Augusta finds a new rôle in life...

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In the spirit of the master of historical picaresque, George MacDonald Fraser, there will be a few historical notes... 

**Notes:**

1. Since Ben Martin was loosely based on Francis Marion, I have retained his Huguenot origins. The surname is certainly plausibly French.


	2. Wherein I am 'Prentic'd to a Surgeon

**2. Wherein I am Prentic'd to a Surgeon**

Man may escape from rope and gun;  
Nay, some have out-liv'd the doctor's pill...

John Gay, _The Beggar's Opera_, 1728

The army camp was several miles away from the plantation. We walked behind the infantrymen, while behind us came the wagons loaded with the most severely wounded. The guard - about twenty men, under the Lieutenant, with the Young Master as prisoner - was taking a different route. I wondered why the fine, proud Colonel had not had Master Gabriel hanged from a tree out of hand. Indeed, had he but known, 'twould have spared us all much grief... As he and his cavalry sped past us, my mother cursed him under her breath, and spat in the road.

My own thoughts on the subject ran much to the contrary, but I kept them to myself.

It was late afternoon when we arrived in what seemed a village of white tents. It was bustling with men, women - who were cooking in cauldrons over campfires - and children. We were made to stand in a line, while a gruffly-spoken man who declared himself Sergeant-Major of His Majesty's 33rd Foot asked us in turn what we could do, and told us our duties. Micah (grumbling mightily) and Josh were sent to aid the ostlers and grooms. The boy kept glancing around him, in a wonder at the uniforms and the activity around him. Jonah and Caleb, and most of the other fieldhands, were assigned to labouring work, digging ditches and fortifying the site. The Sergeant-Major told them that if they proved their worth, they could be properly enlisted as Pioneers.

As the wounded began to be unloaded, the women ran forward to assist them. A few shrieked and cried out in recognition, but most applied themselves to the work at hand in grim silence. Deborah, in obedience to the Sergeant-Major, at once kilted her skirt in her pocket-holes, and made ready to assist. Mother stood aloof: I knew what she was thinking: that after what had befallen at Fresh Water she deigned not to aid any redcoat.

"Letting more men die won't bring back them that's dead already. I'm going to help them," I told her.

"Are you a nurse?" asked the Sergeant-Major.

"Mother and I have skills -" I began, but she interrupted.

"I cook and I clean, sir. I _don't_ nurse."

"Let's see your hands." He looked at my mother's hands, coarsened by years of kitchen and laundrywork. "Washerwoman, then. If you don't work, you don't eat. We can't feed folk who won't work, whether they be slave, Loyal, or soldier's wife. And you, girl - ?"

I held out my hands: but for a few marks from seamstressing, clearly unused to hard labour. Like the sergeant at the house, he was confused, too, by my appearance: "What _are_ you?"

"A lady's maid, sir. But I have a small knowledge of herbs, sir. Please - if I may speak with a surgeon, sir -"

"- Augusta!" Mother cut in, clutching at my arm.

"You, move along, woman!" the Sergeant-Major ordered her. "Just do what you can, girl..."

And I did. My clothes were already bloodied from the morning's work: I cared nothing that they should be soiled further as I helped tend the King's men. It was my duty, my honour's debt to them. And they needed all the help they could get. When the uniform is torn to shreds - cut away with shears - bathed out of the ragged flesh in pieces where it has been dragged in by blade or shot - even the brave cry out for their mothers. I know: for I have held the bravest.

"We should do better, sir," said I to an apple-cheeked young man who appeared to be a surgeon or surgeon's mate, "had we but staunchweed boiled up, against bleeding."

"Staunchweed?" he repeated. "Yarrow?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent, lassie! Are you an apothecary?"

"I know something of the art, sir."

"Lockhart!" he called to a thick-set man with grey-stubbled head, who was stitching a gash across a soldier's back nearby.

"Not now, Jackson, _I'm at my broidery_!" the other answered, mimicking the mim accents of a young lady as far as a deep-voiced man in his fifties can.

They laughed heartily across their patients' trembling bodies. It seemed strange to me at first, yet I would soon learn that surgeons are apt to make sport of suffering, lest it overwhelm them.

"But Lockhart, this young woman's a pottinger!"

"Is she, by God? Good, good... - Then see what you can gather o't, lass! There's enough of it grows hereabouts!"

I obeyed. There was assuredly staunchweed growing a-plenty at the margin of the camp: feathery leaves and heads of pale flowers. I gathered armfuls, taking care to leave the smaller plants for the next crop. (This has ever been my practice, save when a receipt calls for young shoots.) I hurried back with it to the dressing-station, and told one of the wives to boil up the whole plants in water. This works well as a lotion against bleeding: some call it 'Soldiers' Wound-Wort'. (Yet others swear by buds of the red, or French rose, for this purpose, though I have seldom had roses in quantity enough to try).

Afterwards I found the older surgeon, Lockhart, kneeling over a soldier with a belly-wound. The patient was moaning continuously: clearly dying.

He glanced over his shoulder at me. "Fetch me the third bottle on the right, from the travelling chest in my tent. You can count, can you not?"

"I can read, sir, and write."

"Even better! Then it's the laudanum. - Easy, now, lad... Hush..."

I ducked inside the tent behind him, and returned with the bottle. He took it from me with a nod, then dosed the unfortunate soldier, who began to slip into a stupor.

"If his comrades had had any kindness, they'd hae shot him," he said. "Weel done with the yarrow decoction, lass! What's your name?"

"Augusta, sir."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, sir. I'm a freedwoman."

He peered at me through his round spectacles: "Quadroon or octoroon, eh?"

"Quadroon, sir."

"I thought so, from your looks. No matter. I served in the West Indies. - Yet you read and write?"

"The Missus taught me. I was trained for lady's maid and governess."

"Interesting..." He checked the pulse and breathing of the soldier; and covered his face with his jacket, as if death were a matter of routine. "Och weel, not one of my lads... - I'm Alexander Lockhart, physician and surgeon, of Edinburgh, serving with the Legion cavalry." He extended his hand - still bloody - for me to shake. Since mine was no cleaner, I took it freely. "I answer also to 'Sandy', or, indeed, to 'that bloody Scotch butcher'!" he added with a smile.

"Pleased to meet you, sir," I answered, as ever keeping my eyes lowered.

"Since you've proven yourself useful, I'll see if our Colonel's agreeable to you helping me... Mind, some might say 'agreeable' is a word seldom applicable to him - but his bark's waur nor his bite, provided you're not a Rebel!"

"I am not easy affrighted, sir."

"Splendid! Then I think you should be introduced."

I looked down at my stained clothes. "Like this?"

"He's not one to stand on ceremony! Mind, methinks I need this -" Mr. Lockhart darted swiftly into his tent, to snatch up a shabby wig, which he donned somewhat awry.

"What regiment did you say you serve, sir?" I asked.

"The Legion horse. Loyal Americans, save the Colonel, the Major, and a few of the other officers. They call us the 'Green Dragoons'."

My heart leapt. "Then I'm honoured to help."

He led me along to where two officers were deep in conversation. Although they were bareheaded, I knew by their uniforms that they were Green Dragoons. One was short, with hair of reddish hue; the other taller and dark, whom I recognised by his voice and lithe, straight-backed figure as my splendid deliverer.

"Those scouts of yours should have been back before now, Captain."

"They may be soon, sir..." replied the other.

"When they come in, report to me directly. No ifs, no buts. To me. At once. Understood?" snapped the Colonel.

"Yes, sir."

"Prisoner escorts _don't_ vanish into thin air, Bordon! This sort of affair's the last thing we need, with the Lord General coming up from Charlestown! There'll be hell to pay if -" The surgeon cleared his throat, and the Colonel turned abruptly. "- Ah! Lockhart! How stands the butcher's bill?"

"We came off better than the Foot, sir. Eleven of ours wounded, and Lieutenant Pateschall from the 'Death or Glory' boys. As for killed, we've lost three enlisted men, Ensign Campbell and Lieutenant MacDonald."1

"_Which_ Lieutenant MacDonald?"

"Lachie."

"If we _numbered_ all these MacDonalds, life would be so much simpler!"

"They already have by-names or patronymics, sir."

"- Yes - in their _own_ language! 'Tis hard enough at times to fathom _your_ accent - or some of the Americans' - let alone learn Erse, damn it!" He glanced back at the other officer: "- Leave us now, Bordon! But remember - as soon as those scouts -"

"Indeed, sir!" - and so the red-haired Captain departed.

"- Now," said the Colonel, "what do you want, and who, pray, is _this_?"

Feeling his gaze light upon me, I at once became sensible of my disordered appearance: my battered straw hat, my hair (as always) trying to escape its long braid, my blood-spattered jumps and petticoats, my clumsy shoes (an outgrown pair of Master Tom's)...

"Colonel, may I introduce Miss Augusta. Miss Augusta - our regiment's commanding officer, Colonel William Tavington."

I bobbed a courtesy, and kept my head bowed when I spoke to him: "I'm honoured, sir." I wished I could have been dressed as the Missus had me attired when I waited on her in Charlestown. Then I might have felt more at ease before such an elegant gentleman.

"Miss Augusta - what?"

"Just Augusta, sir. I had my master's name before, but now I'm free, sir."

"Were you an indentured woman?"

"No, sir, a slave. You yourself freed me this very day: I am for ever in your debt, sir."

He looked simultaneously quizzical and mildly embarrassed. "You're from that plantation we burned, then? Where we caught the spy?"

I curtsied again. "Yes, sir." (This concerted display of meekness was almost choking me, but I was resolved to give no offence to one to whom I owed so much.)

"Thank you, miss. - Well, Lockhart, flattering as this show of gratitude is, what is its purpose?"

Lockhart rested his hand on my shoulder. "Miss Augusta is literate, and knows something of the use of herbs and physick. Given that Smith is oftimes detached to our infantry, I request permission to employ her as one of my assistants, principally as an apothecary."

"A _woman_? And a _freedwoman_ at that? Lockhart, really, this is most irreg-"

"- Sir," I interjected, "I've nursed children - boys and girls - through fevers, and helped my mother when there was smallpox in the slave-quarters, caring for grown men. I was tending the King's men this morning, at the house, and just now, with Mr. Lockhart and Mr. - is it Mr. Jackson, sir?"

"Yes, Ensign Jackson, of Fraser's. - What does he say about her, Lockhart?"

"You can ask him yourself, sir, but he agrees with me. The lassie's clever, hard-working, looks strong - a useful pair of hands."

"That's as may be! - Now, miss, will you look me in the eye when you speak to me?"

"Sir, I can't... It is not... respectful." All my life I had been taught that to look a white person in the eye was to invite a slap across the face - at the very mildest - for insolence. (My cheek seemed again to sting with the memory of a blow from a brother's hand...)

"You're not a slave now: _look_ at me!" He put his hand under my chin and tilted my head up so that I was gazing directly into his eyes.

I flinched for a moment, then steadied myself. For he had remarkably beautiful eyes: their pale, grey-green colour put me in mind of the Chinese ornaments on Widow Selton's mantlepiece in Charlestown. Jade: yes, like jade. But I noticed there were faint lines beneath them, and around his fine-drawn lips also. Indeed, on close inspection, he who had ridden so bold up to the porch and seized my freedom from the Master was less a shining young avenging angel than a pale, anxious, rather weary man a few years past thirty. Yet he might still be deemed handsome, nonetheless.

"You have nothing to fear," he said, more gently. "Now, Mr. Lockhart says you are literate, and possessed of medical skills: is that so?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you've proven you can endure the sight of bloodshed and broken limbs?"

"I could hardly _not_ endure it, sir: many's the time I've seen men and women under the lash."

"You'll see that often enough in the army! - You appear to conduct yourself modestly: are you of good character?"

"Respecting my morals, sir, yes; I was raised to be of virtuous habits."

"A camp like this is no safe place for virtue."

"Neither's slave-quarters, sir, nor yet a Charlestown assembly, for a servant maid: but I guard my honour."

"A sharp wit, too, eh?" he said, half-smiling, to the older man. "- If you are willing to work hard, and assist Surgeon Lockhart, he will ensure that no harm comes to you."

"That's most kind of you, Colonel, sir."

"It is no kindness, Miss Augusta, but practical necessity. We are likely to have more than enough work for you, if this summer continues as it has begun."

"Thank you, sir."

"- Lockhart, ask Mrs. MacRae to take her in hand. I'll give out that this young woman is to be treated as your ward."

He gave a nod of acknowledgement to each of us, and then - seeing that the red-haired Captain had returned with couple of painted Indians in tow - strode off to meet them.

Mr. Lockhart bade me take tea with him, but I told him that I had not eaten since breakfast, and so he let me rejoin the other freed men and women by their fire. Deborah had made herself completely at home, and was doling out ladles of thick squirrel broth. Josh was chattering brightly to Jonah and Caleb of "all the fine horses". Micah sat in silence.

My mother sighed when she saw me: "Where you been, chile?"

"With one of the surgeons, Mr. Lockhart. Mother, I've got work - real work. They need a 'pothecary - someone to help, anyway, with herbs and poultices and suchlike."

"And you said you'd do it?"

"Mr. Lockhart seems a kind man."

"And you'll warm his bed, I s'pose?"

She judges all men by the Master, I thought. "No, Mother! I'm to be treated as his ward! The Colonel says!"

"'Colonel'? And what be this 'Colonel' of yours?" She looked at me scornfully.

"Colonel Tavington. The gallant gentleman who set us free."

Mother spluttered, almost choking on a hunk of bread. Micah slapped her on the back, and, while she recovered herself, answered for her: "The officer who shot Master Thomas? And was going to hang Master Gabriel?"

"But he ain't harmed any of _us_, has he? - And Mother, all I know of healing I learned from you. I thought you might want to help - please..."

She turned her head away from me. "I told you before, girl. You make of your freedom what you want. Some of us are too old to bear it. 'Sides, I thought your home and Mr. Martin and those sweet children meant something to you, too..."

Meant something? For my mother, an anchor in a storm; for me, an anchor pulling me under until I drowned...

"They never killed _him_, did they?" I said.

"They done broke his heart, I fear... Broke his poor heart..."

She stared into the flames. Deb put her hand on my arm. "It's all right, honey. She don't wish you ill," she said softly, trying to reassure me.

I shrugged, and chewed silently on a limb of squirrel.

It may seem strange to those of you who take it for granted, how some of our number regarded their new-found freedom. Among the young men in particular, there was a sense of hope, even if all that lay ahead was pioneers' or labouring work, with little pay. For the older folk, and even some of the younger women, there were fears. For those who have lived long with every decision, every choice made for them - the roof over their heads and the food in their bellies - the loss of certainty was an almighty shock.

"Miss Augusta?"

A white man's voice jolted me from my thoughts. It was Mr. Lockhart.

"Pardon my intrusion, but there is urgent business afoot."

He drew me aside, out of earshot of the others: "Captain Bordon's Cherokee scouts have found the prisoner escort: or rather, all that's left o't. Horribly murdered. No sign of the prisoner... There's but two alive, and only one fit to speak. The Colonel is with him now, trying to find out what happened. If our new commander gets word of this - because the Colonel made the arrest and sent the escort by the other road - it may go ill for him..."

"What must I do, sir?"

"They're not our lads, but the Colonel says I'm the only chance they have... _He_ should know. Will you help, lass?"

"As well as I'm able."

"Good. There's enough of your yarrow decoction left. Can you make up poultices with poppy-water?"

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Hill, their surgeon, will provide. Come along! No time to lose!"

The Colonel and Captain Bordon were just leaving the 33rd's surgeon's tent when we approached - myself bearing a jug of the staunchweed lotion. Mr. Lockhart saluted: "Sir, my assistant and I are reporting for duty."

"Thank you," the Colonel said grimly. "The private seems wandered in his mind, talks about a 'ghost'. See if you can get some sense out of him. You'll get nothing from young Courtenay: lung-shot. West Hill thinks it's hopeless."2

"That's not always the case, sir."

He forced a bleak smile. "I _know_, Lockhart. That's why I sent for you."

Bordon caught my glance, and shook his head. But if the Colonel trusted Mr. Lockhart to save these men, neither would my faith in him falter.

Within the tent, a very young man lay on a narrow cot. Naked to the waist, he appeared to be cut and bruised all over. Blood was still oozing through a dressing on his chest. Under Hill's direction, I at once set about making a clean compress, moistened with my decoction and poppy-seed water, to cover the hurt: a flesh-wound, thankfully. Mr. Hill had removed the ball, which had ripped across the muscle.

"Am I deein'?" the youth asked faintly.

"Hush," I said, "just you rest now, honey..."

"'Twas one man..." he murmured. "Like a ghost... Everywhere... Like a ghost..."

"You must rest... You've lost a lot of blood."

"You were from that house, weren't you...?"

I nodded. "I'm Augusta. I'm a friend. You're safe now..."

"Davie... Davie Herd. I'm nineteen... I'm no' deein', am I?"

"Not while I'm here. Hush..."

"One man... Indian axe... guns..."

I bandaged the boy's slender body, and stroked his dark hair, the way I used to calm the Young Masters and Missies when they were sick or fretful. He closed his eyes, and I drew the blanket over his shoulders. Perhaps it was renegade Indians who had attacked him, I thought. From the newspapers, I understood that most of the natives - like the Captain's scouts - were friendly to the British, but perhaps a few were not... Or perhaps it had been a mistake. Indians move silently and attack like ghosts, so I had heard tell. My mother had told me how the Master had fought against them in the last war, when I was a child. It could not have been one man. Yet I wondered what had come of the Young Master...

Earlier I had heard Mr. Lockhart ask Mr. Hill, "Where's the other one?" and they had disappeared behind a curtain that divided the tent in twain. Now I was summoned.

"Have you finished there, lass?"

"Yes, sir. I think he needs some sleep."

I stepped through the partition. Another young man, this time one I recognised: the Lieutenant who had been speaking to the Master when the dragoons arrived. He was barely conscious, even more drained of blood than poor Davie. Mr. Hill had cut away the left side of his waistcoat and shirt, and was holding cloths over the ball's entry and exit wounds in his breast and back.

"It's hopeless, Sandy!" he whispered.

"Dangerous, I'll grant ye. But I've done it before."

"And how many have you killed?"

"Fewer than by doing nothing. Get me some rum. - Augusta, if Hill holds the laddie down, will you wipe up the blood and keep talking to him, softly?"

I nodded.

Mr. Lockhart poured rum over his hands, and began to probe the wounds with his fingers. The young officer moaned and coughed up a little blood. He was in a cold sweat, his breathing difficult.

I spoke to him gently, reassuring him that he was safe, telling him how brave he was, how he would get well, that his mother and father would be proud... The boy's eyes, wide in terror and pain, like some poor dumb critter's in a snare, fixed on mine as he bit down on his belt-strap. When momentarily I glanced up, I saw Lockhart pulling out pieces of bone, torn fabric, a uniform button from the wounds...

When it was over, I helped with dressings and compresses of cold water. Lieutenant Courtenay had fainted dead away. He was laid on his injured side, his head and shoulders raised a little.

"I'll open a vein if he stifles," said Hill.

Lockhart's eyes almost bulged through his spectacles. "That may _not_ be necessary. If there are signs of inflammation, effusion of blood, or discharge with either case, let me know."

The two boys having been made comfortable, Mr. Hill was left to take care of them. Some fever was to be expected, Mr. Lockhart told me.

"Should I sit up with them, sir?" I asked.

"No, lassie, you've done more than could be expected for a first day's work! I've seen medical students swoon at less! - Mrs. MacRae will make us tea, and then she will settle you for the night. You'll be sharing a tent with the family - you are used to children, are you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Aye, weel, you'll be with the bairns. And no more of this 'sir' nonsense! It's Sandy - in private, at least! - Mrs. MacRae does laundry for myself and the Colonel; her husband's the Colonel's servant. They're good people, Highlanders from North Carolina. The Rebels burnt them out. They made their way to Savannah a few months past."

"The Colonel burned the Master's plantation this morning... The spy - the one those poor boys were escorting - he was the Young Master. The Colonel arrested him, and he killed Master Tom...."

"He must ha' put the fear of God into you!"

"No, sir - I mean, Sandy - It's like I said, I - I owe him my freedom." How could I explain that I had spent years in prayer for such a deliverer? For the pillar of smoke and the pillar of fire? "He had the Rebel wounded killed," I added.

"Did he, now? - Hmmm..." Sandy looked pensive. "- Mind, God knows how we'd have fed them, if they'd been brought in... And they forged this rod for their ain backs: I just hope _he_'s not made one for _his_... If the Rebels had fought like men in the Jerseys, instead of these damnable ambuscades, he -" As a note of anger rose in his voice, he stopped himself short, and smiled wearily. "- Now, where _is_ that woman...? You do _like_ tea, do you not, Augusta? Not contraband, either!"

I nodded, yawning even as I tried to smile. My first day of freedom had been a tiring one.

Yet that night, bedded down in the MacRaes' tent, I did not sleep soundly. I was troubled by a dream, a memory stirred from many years past. I saw myself peering into a dark trunk. Inside lay a faded soldier's coat - the Master's, from the last war. I took it out and put it on. Yet in my dream, as I swaggered before the mirror, thinking myself the great lady in scarlet and gold lace, I saw myself as I was now, a woman grown - not the girl of fourteen whom the Master had caught. He had almost torn the coat from me (he had thrashed Master Tom for doing the same more recently) - striking me, cursing me as a "yellow bastard", until the Missus had intervened... Yet I dreamed now that 'twas he who trembled, while I glimpsed a silver-like gleam in the depths of the chest, and stretched out my hand for it...

_TO BE CONTINUED_

**Next Chapter:** Wherein Augusta becomes better acquaint with her new 'family', meets a friendly 'Bulldog', and celebrates the King's Birthday.

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**Notes:**

1. Since the previous battle was meant to be the equivalent of the real battle at Waxhaws, I have co-opted the real named casualties from that engagement.

2. Of the medical personnel, Edward Smith, West Hill and Rob Jackson were all real people, but Lockhart is my invention.


	3. Wherein I meet a Friendly Bulldog, & Cel...

**3. Wherein I meet a Friendly Bulldog Celebrate His Majesty's Birthday**

"The romance of _Lancelot_ was our Galahaut."

Dante Alighieri, _Divina Commedia_ (1307), _L'Inferno_, Canto V

The following morning, awoken for the first time by a bugle, I dismissed the dream as a fancy, bred by my weariness and my dread of what the Master would do if he found me again.

That fear soon left me, however, as I swiftly accustomed myself to life in camp. It would be tiresome to relate every trifle of our existence that summer, so I shall write in the main of those people with whom my life became most intimately connected. These were, above all, the MacRaes, whose tent I shared, my dear friend - indeed, my true father, in guidance and affection - Sandy Lockhart, and our Colonel.

I adjusted swiftly to my new life. I slept with the MacRae children, separated from their parents by a hanging blanket. There were five children, from a girl of twelve to a babe in arms. Their parents were listed in the rolls as 'Roderick' and 'Helena', but, as I learned, in their own tongue, their names were Ruairidh and Eilidh (or 'Rory' and 'Ailie' as most of us wrote them!). She was a gentle-seeming soul of about five-and-thirty, with pale yellow hair, he several years older, broad and dark. They spoke slowly in a very soft English, with a hissing of sibilants - quite unlike the Scots of Messrs. Lockhart and Jackson, or poor little Private Herd, although they were compatriots. Among themselves the family conversed in their own language - the Erse, or Gaelic. At times, I felt excluded by this, yet at the same time it afforded all of us a little rare privacy from each other's thoughts.

Mrs. MacRae was kind enough to lend me a plain short-gown and caraco to wear while my own striped petticoat and jumps had the bloodstains salted and beaten out of them. With lacing, I was able to make them fit after a fashion, since she was thicker in the waist than myself. The fact I was a good three inches taller could not be remedied, and my under-petticoats showed beneath the gown's hem. But at least I no longer looked like a butcher's apprentice - though some jested that was precisely what I was!

Betwixt times of our tending our wounded, Sandy began to instruct me in the varieties of pills and potions which filled his cabinet drawers and bottles.

"A goodly quantity of mercury," I observed.

"Ah yes... The scourge of the wandering life, Augusta. 'Ae nicht with Venus, and a lifetime with Mercury', as the adage runs."

"The Master had a cousin in Charlestown who died of the pox. Raving mad. They had to keep him tied to the bed-posts. He was a sea-captain."

"Quite so... Such cases, my dear, _I_ shall attend to - to spare your modesty and, indeed, their shame. But if any of the women need assistance... Aye, you will do."

I eyed the gilt-lettered, ivory-handled drawers and blue and green glass phials in the travelling medicine chest: belladonna, henbane, foxglove, opium, Goulard's extract...

"There is much here that can kill, besides heal."

"The same is true of these," he said, holding up his hands. "They" - and he gestured out of the tent towards the soldiery - "do the killing. We do the healing. And sometimes a little o' t'other: we are, alas, _not_ omnipotent or infallible!" And he gave a little laugh.

"I want to learn from you. To be useful."

"I know. And you're making a grand start."

Besides our own wounded, I was also - at Hill's request - visiting Private Herd and Lieutenant Courtenay, to see how they progressed. Young Davie was beginning to mend. He had lost a great deal of blood, but suffered no internal injury. With salt poultices, his wounds seemed to be keeping clean. He made no further mention of any "ghost". Indeed, I surmised - as did most of us - that it had been a mere phantasy - an effect of the wound to his head, and the unexpectedness of the ambuscade to which he had fallen victim. Richard Courtenay, however, remained for many weeks in a dangerously feeble condition, fevered and coughing blood. He was a sweet-natured youth, and his suffering grieved me far more than the death of my half-brother. He had never insulted or scorned me, but only gazed at me like a frightened child, and smiled when I read his parents' letters to him - he being too weak to concentrate upon them himself.

As to my mother: she declined to speak to me. So be it, thought I. I was too proud to beg her forgiveness - and indeed, had done nothing which warranted it. But I should have welcomed her blessing. I suppose her devotion to the Master had blinkered her to the possibility of forming new allegiances - even though he looked on her as somewhat above his hunting dogs, and a little lower than his horse. (That she was infinitely below his wife went without saying.) And I knew that Mother would never comprehend the debt of honour which I believed we all owed Colonel Tavington.

In the few days immediately following our arrival in camp, there was turmoil. It was less than a week before the King's Birthday - a Sunday that year - and the new Commander-in Chief was due to arrive from Charlestown the day before.

On the Friday, after eating with the MacRaes (as had become my custom), I repaired to Sandy's tent to drink tea and be guided through some more of his receipts for medicines.

As I reached out for the opening, I heard his voice, evidently in conversation with one of the men:

"Unfortunately, the preferment of senior officers is beyond our powers, lad... You must thole it as best you can... You got off on an ill footing in Charlestown, I'll admit, but if you let him see you despise him..."

I paused: one of the men had clearly crossed our haughty-tempered Colonel. I wondered whether or not to interrupt...

"Is that _you_ outside, Augusta? Pray come in!"

When I did, I was surprised to see that the soldier to whom Sandy had been dispensing his advice was neither a junior officer nor a private soldier, but our Colonel himself, perched rather precariously on the small folding-stool.

"Oh! Sir!" I bobbed. "I'm sorry to intrude!"

He stood up when I entered, and made a small bow in acknowledgement: "Good e'en to you, Miss Augusta. - Lockhart, my thanks: I'll go now, and we'll talk further."

"No need!" said Sandy. "I think Augusta is a safe a confidante as any!"

Colonel Tavington looked askance at him, and then at me.

"Sir," I said, "you have my word on my discretion."

He smiled shyly, and offered me the folding-stool, while he seated himself on the ground, long legs stretched in front of him.

"Thank you most kindly, sir!"

"My pleasure," he replied, glancing away from me. I think it was then I first suspected that his arrogant mien in public was a cloak for an essentially reserved nature - a way of keeping people in general at a distance. Indeed, I subsequently observed that he was at his best with, at most, four or five people: more than that, and he would become self-conscious, and try to hide, aloof and imperious, behind his rank.

Sandy sighed: "We were just saying, were we not, that His Lordship's arrival is... inopportune, to say the least."

"- Because of the prisoner escort?" I asked.

"In part," he replied. "It's his own regiment. Jamie Webster's1 taken it weel enough, but how the General will see it..."

"...Is anybody's guess," the Colonel finished. "Webster's a fine fellow, but he _is_ Cornwallis's second-in-command, after all... And the reputation of the 33rd mustn't slip..."

"And the General's arriving tomorrow?" I asked.

"And, we fear, will be _staying_," said Sandy.

The Colonel nodded, and sank into silence. He looked morose and awkward. Then, after a few moments, he raised his head, forcing himself to smile faintly.

"You must forgive us, Miss Augusta - we are all more than a little vexed that Sir Henry is returning to New York... Pray tell me, are you happy here among us?"

"Why, yes, sir."

"Sandy tells me you are beginning to prove your worth."

"I try, sir."

"She shows promise," said Sandy. "She's been helping Hill with the two survivors."

The Colonel narrowed his eyes, peering up at me from under dark lashes: "Have they said anything more, about what happened?"

I shook my head. "Lieutenant Courtenay can barely speak, sir, but he seems to remember nothing. He asks for his mother oftentimes. Davie Herd... He thinks it was a ghost."

"The lad _did_ take a blow to the head," Sandy added in explanation.

"And it _can't_ have been one man. It just isn't possible. Those men had bayonets - even if they didn't fire, they could have..." The Colonel paused. "Yet there's neither word nor sign of militia activity, nor any renegade natives thereabouts... Must have gone to ground quickly... Most curious!"

"Aye," Sandy agreed. "Most curious."

The following day, General Lord Cornwallis, his staff - including a recently -appointed Inspector of Militia - and a consignment of provisions, lately shipped in to Charlestown, arrived in camp. While the senior officers flocked to the Generals to pay their respects, we lesser mortals crowded around to see what stores had arrived.

"Fresh meat!" one of the women called.

"Well, as fresh as you can expect, coming from Cork in a barrel!" our Quartermaster parried. "Maggots as usual!"

"- That's what I said - _fresh meat_!"

Sandy peered into the cask, sniffing, and pulled out a handful of white, wriggling grubs. "Right - anyone who's no taste for their share of maggots, give them to me and the other surgeons! We can aye use them!"

Later, he showed me how, with one of the privates who had a stinking wound through the flesh of his thigh. The soldier grimaced as the writhing little beasts were applied to the decaying tissues.

"You'll be fine, lad... See, Augusta, these wee worms will eat away the mortification. Hale flesh they never touch." He smiled: "Generous of the War Office to mind to supply them, is it not!"

"You had better be smartening yourself, _a nighean_, with the Chenerals around," Mrs. MacRae advised me, as I rinsed my hands in her laundry tub. "Very grand 'twill be the morrow!"

I combed and re-plaited my hair, pinning the end of the braid on top of my head, in the manner of grenadiers and light infantry. Sandy shook the excess powder off his wig on to the grass, before donning it.

"Now, is that straight, Augusta?"

"More or less."

"I think the problem's my heid, not the wig- 'Twill have to do, in any case."

I turned on hearing a familiar voice sounding surprisingly animated, even sprightly. The Colonel was walking along our 'street' of tents, in lively conversation with a shorter, very slender man with a limping gait and a staff officer's uniform.

"Lockhart!" called the slight man, raising his left hand in salutation (the right rested in his waistcoat). "You old rogue! And who have we here?"

The Colonel smiled. "The young lady is his assistant. An apothecary. - Would you believe it, Sandy: _this_ is the new Inspector of Militia Sir Henry appointed as a parting gift - 'The Bulldog'!"

"Congratulations, Pate!" he laughed and shook his left hand. I realised that the right must be little use. "We aye kent you'd accomplish great things!"

"- You'll not think so when you hear what His Lordship has in mind for me...!" the stranger answered in a similar accent.

"And this - please forgive me for not introducing you properly -" the Colonel lapsed into his customary formality, "this is Augusta, Lockhart's ward and assistant. Miss Augusta, this is Major Ferguson of the 71st, commander of the American Volunteers, Inspector of Militia. Some call him 'The Bulldog'."

I bobbed a courtesy.

"Charmed," he said, with a bow and a sparkle in eyes that were eitherblue or grey, or something in between. This 'Bulldog' looked more like one of the dainty Italian greyhounds rich ladies keep as pets. He was scarce above my Master's height; handsome, but not in the way our Colonel was handsome, although they were much of an age.Sharper in feature, with a pointed face and soft brown hair, he seemed to carry as little flesh as a sparrow. With his slightly halting walk and crippled right arm, I was surprised he was still in service. Yet when he took my hand and raised it to his lips, I felt a wiry strength and energy in him. It was his tenacity and courage, not his appearance, which had earned him his nickname.

"Now, now," chided Sandy, "don't try to turn her heid! She's as duty-bound as either of you."

"Besides, sir," I added, "my head turns only of its own accord."

"A sparkler!" Ferguson smiled. "- You've a challenge there, Will, if you ever take your nose out from your books!"

"We don't have time for such folly," the Colonel answered curtly. "What absurdities can we expect from his Lordship?"

"If I begin now, old friend" - he pronounced it 'freend', as Sandy did - "we'll be here till evening...!"

The four of us ambled along to the Colonel's tent, which bore witness to his military successes in the form of a walnut escritoire and a pair of silver candlesticks, evidently from the apportioning of spoils. There was also a large, battered tin trunk, at one end of which I seated myself, the rest serving as a table.

"Would you fellows like a little port- Sandy? Patrick?"

"Port- Fit only for medicine or Englishmen!" joked the Major. "But since it's impossible to find a decent claret in this country, and you disdain spirits, aye, with thanks!"

The Colonel unlocked the cabinet in the lower part of his escritoire, and brought out a small decanter and some horn cups. He asked me shyly: "I should be very grateful if you would be our hostess, Augusta." I agreed, and poured the wine in a spirit of amity, not of servitude.

"So," asked Major Ferguson, "what is it you've heard? Did His Lordship say anything to you when he arrived?"

"I wasn't even summoned," the Colonel answered. "But Webster was... And I think I know what's afoot..."

"Why? What happened?"

"Eighteen of their men were killed in an ambuscade, probably by Rebel militia, five days ago. They were escorting a prisoner. I had ordered them to do this, being the senior officer present at the man's arrest. But he escaped, of course."

"_You_ took a prisoner? Now _there's_ a change!"

"Yes, _well_...! At this cost, it's not an experiment I'm inclined to repeat... Anyhow, Webster doesn't hold me personally responsible, but I'm sure Lord C. won't see it that way..."

Ferguson looked pensive. "I have a suspicion you're right. He's already trying to limit my duties as Inspector of Militia from the terms Sir Henry set out when he appointed me. I've not been in the post two weeks, and His Lordship says I should act more as a 'Justice of the Peace'! Can't he see that's hopelessly inadequate? There are Loyal Americans, unable to defend themselves, being burned out of their homes by Rebel militia. Does he think an itinerant magistrate can settle that!"

The Colonel sighed. "God knows... Probably. If he were to be open and honest, he would decree that everyone appointed or promoted to a senior position by Sir Henry should be shipped back to New York with him, and replace us with his own placemen... Instead, he chips away at us to undermine us, while pretending we still matter."

"But you _were_ a wee bitty tactless when he arrived in Charlestown, admit it, William!"

"It was a reasonable and perfectly valid speculation: why couldn't _Sir Henry_ stay with us and _he_ go to New York? It was one matter for Sir Henry to replace Sir Billy at the start of the '78 season. But here we are, in full campaign, with Charlestown newly taken, at risk of losing momentum because of a change in commander! Ridiculous!"

"Aye," interjected Sandy. "But to ask it in _earshot_!"

"_I_ didn't know he was behind us on the stairs - did _you_?"

Ferguson shook his head. "No, but I think we'll _both_ pay for it..." He then glanced across at me, and from me to Sandy: "I take it, Lockhart, you and your ward will be gracing us with your presence at the formal dinner tomorrow?"

I must have appeared visibly discomfited - charming though the Major was, his attempts at flirtation made me uncomfortable, and I had little relish for what he and the Colonel were implying would be a politically fraught encounter with the Generals. Sandy understood: "The care of the wounded must take priority, must it not, Augusta?"

"Indeed," I said, "I'm sure the King would not wish those who have suffered in his name to be neglected on account of his birthday."

"Weel, we'd both agree with that from experience, eh, Will?" the Major smiled.

The Colonel glanced at the floor, as if some memory had o'ershadowed his thoughts. "Yes," he answered. "I would rather not be there myself, but my duty..."

"Eh..." Ferguson sighed. "Duty- We both must back to the General... You wouldn't believe whom he's given me as second, Sandy!"

"Whom?" asked the surgeon.

"Hanger."

The Colonel's pale face blanched even further: "_Hanger_? _Really_?"

Ferguson grinned: "At least it wasn't _Cochrane_- _That_ would have been the more perfect irony- Where _is_ Charlie, anyway?"

"Off with the infantry: I trust him to his own devices with them."

"Rather you than me! I'll keep my sword handy, then- Come along, William! If his Lordship 'taks agin' you, you can aye hide in a corner as usual! At least Frank's in witty form- A pleasure to find you here, Sandy! And to meet you, Miss Augusta!" He bowed.

"Thank you for your courtesy, sir," I said.

"Aye, but you'll be seeing us again," Sandy smiled. "Good to see you again, lad!"

And we too returned to our duties.

The King's birthday began with a service of thanksgiving and a full parade and inspection. Any neglect or untidiness could be punished with the lash, so everything was as spick-and-span as possible. Even the privates had taken a good two hours to pomade, powder and queue their hair. Every boot was blacked, every button gleaming, every white strap of pristine, pipe-clay spotlessness. Every horse, too, had been brushed until its coat shone: Micah, Joshua and the other ostlers and grooms had been hard at work.

Infantry and cavalry alike made a magnificent site, lined up as the Generals in their fine scarlet and gold lace passed before them. The Commander-in-Chief was inclined to plumpness, but impressive nonetheless; with him were General O'Hara and young Lord Rawdon, and our friend the Inspector of Militia, bright and dapper as a Cardinal Finch. He sat his horse so gracefully, the reins in the hand of his crooked arm, that I guessed that he must once have been a cavalryman. Our own Colonel - tall and stern, on his big chestnut horse - made quite a contrast with his friend. Early that morning, we had heard him cursing while MacRae was pinning up his side curls and powdering his hair (powder made him sneeze, so he very seldom wore it), but he looked magnificent. As the newest member of the regimental family, I took a certain pride in him. Even Sandy looked smart in full uniform.

The Lord General gave a long and pompous address - the content of which I have forgotten quite - and the parade was dismissed. Then began the round of dining and drinking for officers and men, with loyal toasts a-plenty, which by evening had turned the camp into something resembling a large and particularly rowdy tavern... I caught a glimpse of my mother talking earnestly with Micah. When she recognised me as I approached, she deliberately turned away, shunning me. I wondered what she was up to...

Sandy had been obliged to attend the regiment's party, at which the Generals were being entertained, but I remained in the hospital tent, talking cheerily as I tended our wounded. I told them what I had told Major Ferguson - that the King would not wish them to be ignored on his birthday. For those who were well enough, a little wine was both restorative and festive. For those who could not write, whether from ignorance or injury, I wrote letters to loved ones at home, by their dictation.

Already I realised that I had brought something to their lives which Sandy and his colleagues, for all their skills, and the camp drabs, for all their easy ways, could not. There was scarce one of the men who did not have a sister, or daughter or other kin, left at home. By conducting myself with them as lady-like as I might, yet being at the one and same time their friend and nurse, I won their respect. And I think if any man had ever made an attempt on my honour, the others would have struck him down, so did they esteem me.

As the evening wore on, I went back to Sandy's tent to return the pestle and mortar I had been using to grind herbs for poultices. The lanterns were burning within. That was careless, I thought, expecting him still to be at the party. And so I did not take care where I was stepping when I entered.

"Ow!" I and another cried simultaneously, as I stumbled over a pair of booted ankles. They were attached to the long legs of the immaculately-uniformed and powdered gentleman who had, until I tripped over him, been sitting on the ground with a book resting on his knees...

"- Miss Augusta! Are you all right?"

"Colonel Tavington- Why yes, I managed to right myself! I wasn't expecting to find..."

He raised his finger to his lips

I lowered my voice to a whisper: "I'm sorry, sir! Are you hurt?"

"No. I'm in hiding," he whispered back, with a lift of his eyebrows.

"_Hiding_?"

"Ignore me, please."

I looked at him quizzically, wondering if he were drunk - but he did not smell of drink. And so I shrugged, and busied myself tidying the medicine cabinets. Even so, I found it difficult to concentrate. What was the Colonel doing here? He should be at the King's birthday celebrations. Slightly worried, I kept glancing stealthily over my shoulder at him.

He was reading.

After nearly half-an-hour, I asked: "What are you doing, sir?"

"What do I _appear_ to be doing?" he snapped sarcastically.

"What is the book, sir?"

"A novel."

"Oh."

There was a pause. I edged slightly closer, trying discreetly to peer over his shoulder. He raised his head and caught my gaze in his own. His eyes had a silvery hue in the lamplight as he looked up at me. "What _is_ it, Augusta?" he asked, with some exasperation.

I glanced down demurely. "I-I don't think I've ever read a novel, sir."

He seemed incredulous. "No? At home, that's _all_ lady's maids read!"

"I'm lucky to read at all, sir. But the Master didn't hold with ladies reading novels. The Missus had one or two - romances and such - but from what I saw of them, I think they were indeed as foolish as the Master said."

His tone warmed a little, I suspect with curiosity. "A shrewd observation- So what do you read?"

"The Bible, sir. That gave me strength through the years of my captivity. And newspapers - I always took the journals, after the Master and Young Master had read them. And some of their political papers. There was one they were going to burn that I took - by a Dr. Johnson -"

"_Taxation No Tyranny_?"

"Yes, sir. And he decried the drivers of Negroes yelping for 'Liberty'."

"Well, well..." He began to smile. "Quite the bluestocking!"

"No, sir, they're carnation - or they were, sir, when new!"

He laughed.

"Please don't mock me, sir!"

"I'm not laughing at you, Augusta, merely marvelling! You are an original- But I fear I'm not reading anything erudite enough for you! You'll think me foolish indeed."

"Why, what is it, sir?"

"One of Dr. Smollett's tales, _The Adventures of Sir Launcelot Greaves_. It is, I must confess, _not_ entirely serious."

"No?"

"It's patterned after an old Spanish tale, of a modern gentleman who fancies himself a knight-errant."

"A 'knight-errant'?"

" - In olden time, at least in romances, that was a fellow who rode around seeking his fortune in strange lands, slaying villains and monsters, rescuing fair maidens, protecting the weak c.."

"Like a dragoon, sir?" I asked wryly.

He beamed. "Not exactly! Knight-errants fight for love, honour, and adventure, _not_ 24 shillings and sixpence!"

"So it is a foolish fancy, then, sir?"

"Most probably: although at one time, I found it _most_ true to life!"

"Are you mocking me again, sir?" I asked sharply.

He closed the book, and the light in his large, pale eyes dimmed. "Why, no. I mock no-one but myself. The naivety of my youth."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Don't be."

"Did you attend the Lord General's celebrations, sir?"

He sighed: "Yes, I did... And 'twas just as I foresaw. For all that Jamie Webster spoke up for me, you'd think, to hear the General, that I had carried out the ambuscade on the 33rd myself, for to spite him! He doesn't like my methods, doesn't think me a 'gentleman'... And beneath all lies the fact I owe my command to Sir Henry."

"Indeed, I am sorry."

"'Tis a small matter. I'm glad to be out of it. I've little taste for society, and am such a dull dog I'll scarce be missed by those who stayed!"

"You seemed not so when we were talking with the Major and Mr. Lockhart, sir."

"Pattie's an old friend; Sandy likewise. And you... well, you're with Sandy. But grand company ill-suits me. Lords and Generals and the like... Everyone staring."

"I used to hate attending my mistress at the Charlestown assemblies," I said, understanding. Much as I had loved the chance to wear my best print gown, it had galled me to watch, a mere slave, while those I knew to be my blood-kindred - Draytons and Martins - paraded themselves in their silks and powder. And how I would fend off the importuning of drunken gallants, convinced by the logic of the punch-bowl, that any brown or yellow servant-maid (or youth) was theirs for the taking. (A long hair-pin is useful in such cases...)

A fleeting smile crossed his grave features. "Another good friend of mine tried to get me on stage in Philadelphia - as Norval in _The Tragedy of Douglas_.2 I froze at the first rehearsal, like a frightened rabbit - I lost my voice. I think that convinced André it wasn't a good idea, since, mercifully, he didn't ask me to do it in dumb-show!"

"I should never have imagined, sir..."

"That's just the point, isn't it, Augusta? I try to hide it. It's easy enough on duty: I'm 'the Colonel' and people are respectful or terrified, according to their allegiance. But I'd rather take my chances charging a line of cannon, alone and unsupported, than at an assembly or rout... or party with the Lord General! I drag myself by the ears into such gatherings!"

"Surely it was not so bad, sir?"

"It was. I only bided my time so that I might slip away _after_ the Loyal Toast, lest he accuse me of treason on that account!" said he sardonically.

"It _is_ the King's birthday, sir!"

He shrugged. "His Majesty can scarce object if I choose to celebrate _his_ birthday in the manner in which I almost invariably celebrate mine _own_!"

"- Perhaps His Majesty cannot object, but I _certainly_ do!" A thin, sharp face appeared in the opening of the tent. "'Tis _my_ birthday too- And what have we here, Sandy- Lo! 'Tis the Knight of the Woeful Countenance and the fair Lady Dulcinea!"

"Ferguson! Don't judge every man by your own measure!" the Colonel replied, feigning annoyance.

"'Sour and sulky shall we sit,  
Like auld philosophorum?'" the Major sang to a lively tune.3 "- What do you mean, Tavington, slinking off like a whipped cur just because his Lordship cut you- Miss Augusta, is he not the most miserably discourteous of rascals?" he grinned.

I tried not to smile. "On the contrary, sir, I find him courteous enough."

"Bairns, bairns! This _is_ a family gathering, is it no'?" exclaimed Sandy, following Ferguson into the tent. He sank down like a sack of potatoes on his cot, while the Major proved himself the only person delicate enough to sit with any degree of grace on the folding-stool.

"The one fellow missing from the old days is John!" said the Colonel. "I wonder what mischief he's up to...?"

"And with _what lady_?" added Ferguson.

Sandy peered at me through his spectacles: "Augusta, I trust you have been conducting yourself in a proper manner?"

"I have been with the wounded for most of the evening, and but lately returned here. I found the Colonel, and he has been telling me about his book," I answered.

Ferguson picked up one of its volumes: "Ah, _Sir Launcelot Greaves,_ eh! By my uncle's old friend! I was not so wide of the mark!" He leafed through it, smiling to himself.

"You've not missed much at the feast," Sandy remarked, taking a pinch of snuff from the enamelled box in his waistcoat pocket. "His Lordship's hounds ate better nor most of us!"

"Aye," said the Major. "After he'd finished with his fulminations anent _you_, Will, he wound up blethering about his dogs, and greeting with exquisite sensibility in his cups about his late, lovely Jemima... But you should have heard O'Hara and Frank Rawdon duetting on _Success to the Shamrogue_ and _Handsome Polly-O_!4 Let's say Tenducci5 need _not_ fear for his laurels!"

"I'd liefer _not_ imagine it, thank ye!" the Colonel replied. "O'Hara sober is as much as I can endure...- _You_ seem sober enough, though."

"'Twould scarce be wise to leave His Lordship any more hostages to fortune- Anyway, O'Hara reached the stage where he starts speaking Portuguese and assumes everyone understands.6 Then things turned a little acrimonious when one of Lord C.'s dogs took a bite out of Frank's hat, and so we decided to absent ourselves. I think, besides myself - I cannot speak for Sandy - Jamie is possibly the most clear-headed man remaining."

" Which doesna surprise me," said Sandy. "He's had good training! His Reverend father's no' called 'Bonum Magnum' for nothing! Five bottles of claret at a sitting!"

"Tsk!" Ferguson pretended to chide. "That's your Whiggish clergy for you!"

"Hah!" Sandy teased in retaliation: "And your treasonable, Jacobitical, Episcop- Episcopopple- How much _did_ I drink, Pattie?"7

"More than a little, and less than a lot, old fellow!"

"Never mind!" he sighed.

"Anyway," put in the Colonel, "did His Lordship give you your orders, or is he abandoning the plan for the militia altogether?"

"'Tis a stepmother-blessing he's wished on me! Once I've retrieved my Volunteers _and_ both my doxies, I'm going up country to recruit - to Ninety-Six," Major Ferguson answered.

"But that's where _Balfour_'s being sent! Good God!"

"My sentiments precisely! How long do you wager it'll be before I kill that clyping old woman, or he me?"

"You _know_ I never gamble!"

He teased: "- _Or_ drink spirits, _or_ do anything else you might regret the morning after! I mind- What the de'il _do_ you do to amuse yourself, William - besides hiding yourself away with a heap of books?"

The Colonel kept a solemn face, but his eyes twinkled: "I roast babies for breakfast, dissenting clergymen for dinner, and, for an encore, bite the heads off live serpents at supper - _if_ you believe the rumours rife in these parts!"

"I'm not sure I _don't_ believe them!" his friend joked. He yawned, and stretched his left arm, then rubbed the upper part of it with the hand of his bent-up right.

"How's the bayonet-wound?" Sandy asked him.

"Almost as good as new- Can you credit it, Miss Augusta- Twelve weeks syne, Charlie Cochrane and your Legion infantry charged us in camp at night, thinking we were the enemy - ran me through my one good wing!"

"How dreadful!" I sympathised.

"- For three weeks I was gey weel 'armless!" the Major punned. "Still, it could have been worse!"

"Indeed it could," said the Colonel, again with mock-gravity. "It might have been _my cavalry_! At least _Cochrane_ takes prisoners!"

Ferguson laughed: "You'll get yourself into trouble one day, William!"

"As if _you_ won't!" he parried, then added thoughtfully: "I wonder where we'll be this time next year?"

"Home, I hope!" replied Sandy. "Home, in Byres Close, with Tibbie and my bairns by the fireside!"

"We'll share a claret jug at Indian Peter's, God willing!8 Or oysters and porter!" said the Major. "- And you, Will?"

"If we win, I think I'd like to stay here - Last war, they gave land-grants in Canada, after all... I've missed living in the country these last twenty years or more... Yes - mark me down as a provincial squire in some more temperate part of these Colonies! And if we're all spared, I'll write you next year from... let's say, the Ohio valley! Certainly not the Carolinas, 'tis so ghastly humid!"

"- Nor the _Jerseys_?" quipped Major Ferguson.

The Colonel flinched momentarily. "Well, you'd hardly choose to live at _Brandywine_, would you, Pat?"

"True enough!" replied the other. "But I fear, though we may finish the Rebels, there'll still be the French and Spaniards to settle with!"

I said nothing, but wondered what my own fate would be, with neither family nor home, since my mother wanted no more of me.

"You look tired, lassie," said Sandy.

I nodded. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, this has been a pleasant evening, but I'm mightily tired."

"I'll walk with you to the MacRaes' - there'll be more than a few drunken men about!" he said, getting up.

"And you're one of them!" The Colonel put out his hand. "It's all right, Sandy, I'll escort the young lady. They'll think twice before they meddle with me."

"Thank you, sir," I nodded.

It was a warm night, so I had no cloak with me. The Colonel took down the smaller of the horn lanterns, and walked with me out into the night.

"I hope you didn't mind me talking on so, earlier," said he.

"Why, no, sir."

Several infantry regulars staggered past, arm-in-arm, singing that old song of Marlborough's wars, 'Over the Hills and Far Away'.

"You put me a little in mind of my sister Izz... That sets me at ease. All of us miss our families greatly."

"I know Sandy misses his wife and children. Do you have a wife, sir?"

He shook his head: "I need to make my fortune and slay a few dragons ere I can afford _that_!"

"So you _are_ a knight-errant after all?"

"No - although the Lord General assuredly thinks I _err_ enough..."

"I'm sorry if I disturbed you at your reading."

"Some disturbances are to be welcomed... I have a trunkful of books, and you're welcome to borrow any of them whenever you please, Miss Augusta. And I'm sure Sandy will lend you some of his, also."

"Why, thank you, sir."

"No, thank _you_: I wish I were better company, but 'tis not in my nature to be otherwise."

Yet I had found him most gracious... I slipped into the tent as quietly as I could, since most of the children were asleep. "Goodnight, Colonel."

"Goodnight, madam." He gave a short bow, clicking his heels, and strode off back to join his friends.

_TO BE CONTINUED_

**Next Chapter: **Wherein Abigale takes decisive action, and the appointment of a new Major alarms the Colonel

-

**Notes:**

1. Lieutenant-Colonel James Webster (1740-81), 33rd Foot, was son of Rev. Dr. Alexander 'Bonum Magnum' Webster of the Tolbooth Parish, Edinburgh. A close friend of Lord Cornwallis, he died of wounds after Guilford Courthouse, and lies in an unmarked grave in Elizabethtown, North Carolina. He was a first cousin of James Boswell.

2. Rev. John Home's _Tragedy of Douglas_ was one of several plays produced by John André in Philadelphia. 'Norval' is the tragic young hero: not a role for anyone who gets struck dumb with stage-fright, however much he might have the requisite dashing good looks and intensity! The playwright was, coincidentally, a friend and correspondent of Major Ferguson.

3. 'Sour and sulky shall we sit/Like auld philosophorum?' - from Rev. John Skinner's composition, _Tullochgorum_, to the traditional reel of the same name: a marvellous song! Since (then) Captain Ferguson didn't go to America until 1777, he could have seen the lyrics when they received magazine publication in 1776. Before his arm was crippled at Brandywine, he had been a self-taught fiddler.

4. _Success to the Shamrogue_ was written especially for Frank Rawdon's Volunteers of Ireland, to the tune of _Langolee_. _Handsome Polly-O_ ("A regiment of soldiers came to Mohill-O") is a traditional Irish song, belonging to the same ballad-family as _The Bonnie Lass o' Fyvie_ and _Peg of Derby-O_ (tune: _The Chesapeake and the Shannon_) about a lady's maid who plays hard-to-get with a young dragoon Captain, who pines away and dies of a broken heart as a result! (Believe that and you'll believe _anything_!).

5. Tenducci was a well-known Italian singer in the Edinburgh music scene.

6. O'Hara was half-Portuguese and born in Lisbon.

7. Pattie Ferguson uses the term "Whiggish" in its original Scots sense, referring to 'High-Flying' Evangelical Presbyterians such as Lieut. Col. Webster's convivial father, Rev. Dr. Alexander Webster. (Webster's mother, incidentally, was James Boswell's aunt.) "Tory" originally meant Jacobite - to be precise, Catholic-Irish Jacobite bandits. The American usage is peculiar, since most of the so-called 'Tories', in the sense of American Loyalists, were actually _Whigs_ in British party-political terms, and found the Rebel usage deeply offensive. (Since it now means a Conservative, I'd go for the jugular of anyone who called me that, too! ;-D)

8. 'Indian Peter''s coffee-house was in Parliament Close (now Square), Edinburgh, just the other side of St. Giles' (the High Kirk) from Major Ferguson's family home in Roxburgh's Close, or the home of our fictional Sandy Lockhart in Byres Close. Peter Williamson had been abducted from Aberdeen by slave-traders as a boy, and after various adventures in the Colonies, including a period as a captive of the natives, returned to Scotland, successfully sued his abductors, and set up a coffee-house and even a local postal service in Edinburgh. He occasionally affected First Nations costume, complete with feathered headdress, as a sales gimmick, hence his nickname. He is immortalised in the cartoons of John Kay and the verse of Robert Fergusson.


	4. Wherein my Education Continues Apace

**4. Wherein my Education Continues Apace.**

Courts and camps are the only places to learn the world in.

Philip, 4th Earl of Chesterfield, _Letters to his Son_, 1747

The morning after the celebrations, Sandy and I found ourselves called upon to dispense purgatives, due to the intemperance of many of the soldiery and, indeed, of their women. Yet it was not for that reason that Deborah, in some distress, sought me out.

"Augusta, honey...," she began, twisting her hands in her apron.

I glanced up from the medicine chest. "What's wrong?"

"It's Abigale."

My heart sank, my mind racing through numerous possibilities. Had she died, or been taken ill? Had some accident befallen her?

"Last night... She and Micah are gone."

"Gone where?" I asked in alarm.

She shrugged. "I don't rightly know for sure. But he been talking 'bout the 'Maroons. He don't like it here none. And your mother - she... Well, she say that you ain't no daughter of hers no more."

"But Deb - she said nothing to me!"

"I guess since we're all free now, she didn't think she'd tell anyone. She thought you might have told the officers, I guess."

I was struck dumb. Had she informed me of my mother's death, I believe I should have borne it better. That in the space of a week she could have turned so hard against me - when I had tried, or believed I had tried - to comprehend her ties to the Master and his family... It seemed unjust.

"She said it cleaved her heart in twain, seeing you so friendly with the soldiers who killed Master Tom and took the Young Master. She said you lie with the old doctor and the pretty Colonel."1

"That ain't true, Deb. You know that."

"I do know - But when I tried telling her Mr. Lockhart's a good man, she wouldn't listen, and she cursed Colonel Tavington."

My mother seldom used profanities, but it did not surprise me that she should direct them at that gentleman. "I'm sure she did..."

"'Gusta, I mean she _cursed_ him. We had a goodly fire last night on the King's account, and a fowl to eat. But she cut the bird's throat and drew on the ground with the blood. Like her mother taught her in the old times at Squire Drayton's, she said."

"That only works if you believe it. White folks don't."

"Maybe. Maybe not..." She put her hand on my shoulder. "'Gusta, I don't like all that happened back at the house with the Young Masters, either, but... You're right. We're free, and this is our home, now, ain't it?"

I forced a smile. "A strange kind of home, but yes. As long as we stay here."

That afternoon, we bade adieu to Major Ferguson. He was returning to his American Volunteers, whom he was to lead up country to Ninety-Six, under Colonel Balfour's command. He cut an eccentric figure, having donned a loose checked duster to shield his staff officer's finery from the stour of the roads.

After his formal farewells to the Generals, Sandy and I joined our Colonel in setting him on the road. Again he bowed to me, and kissed my hand.

"It has been a pleasure to meet you, madam. Had I not already mair ladies than I can hold with ease -" he began mischievously, but, seeing that his flirting discomfited me, he broke off and bowed again.

Sandy laughed: "Pattie, you're a rogue! I've a mind to write your Mother!"

"Fear not- Miss Augusta, I merely pay tribute to your beauty and virtue! Besides, Mesdames Polly and Sarah would assuredly rend me, like the Thracian bard, limb from limb.2 And since I have scant use of my limbs as it is, 'twould be folly to dispense with them altogether. Am I forgiven?"

I nodded, trying to keep a stern countenance. "Yes, Major."

He mounted his horse with surprising ease and agility. "Lockhart, when you next write them, convey my regards to Mistress Tib and your charming bairns- William, I'll write how I fare with Balfour and the ineffable George..."

The Colonel sighed. "Good luck! At least Hanger's a splendid shot - sober!"

"He boasts he can best me. Doubtless he can _now_, though a few years syne..."

"You take care, old fellow!"

"I'll be safe enough - so long as you keep Charlie Cochrane on the leash!" He saluted jauntily, and so rode from us.

The Colonel shook his head - he, or more likely MacRae, had brushed most of the powder out by now - and smiled to himself. "Were I in Ferguson's place, he said quietly to Sandy, "I am sure I should be quite eat up with bitterness."

"I doubt that," the older man answered sagely. "Not so long as you had strength to wield a sabre."

We returned to our duties with the sick and wounded. In the evening, I settled down to read by the fire. Sandy had loaned me a short novel called _The Man of Feeling_, ere he and the Colonel weaned me on to longer fare such as Smollett. But in the melancholic mood into which I was beginning to sink on my mother's account, 'twas hardly cheering, with the compassionate Mr. Harley unable to admit his love for Miss Walton until he lay on his deathbed, and he immediately expiring upon her revealing that she returned his affections. While I believed the circumstances most absurd and improbable - so slight then was my acquaintance with matters of the heart and of sensibility - yet it brought some tears to my eyes.

Mrs. MacRae noticed the salten drops fall from my lashes on to the paper.

"That must be an unhappy tale, Augusta."

"It is not for that alone I weep," said I, "but my mother has gone away, with no word of farewell to me."

She was dandling her youngest son on her knee, and clasped him close to her bosom. "Sorry am I to hear tell of it."

"It is on account of her hatred for the Colonel, and her ties to our Master. She was to him... Hagar. And so like Ishmael I now find myself adrift in the wilderness."

"But you are not alone," she said softly. "While my husband lay in chains, we were plundered, and had the roof burned above us three times in as many years. I took the children into the forest... Three years, and then Ruairidh escaped and found us. When we came to Savannah, to the Green Soldiers, in spring, we had not been safe since the year '76. And now... He is a good man, our Colonel. He took the fear from us. And now it is those who oppressed us who are afraid."

I dried my eyes. "Amen to that!"

Little Murchaidh waved a small pink fist and gurgled as if in agreement.

"_Isd, isd, mo bhalaich_!" said his mother, kissing his scanty baby-hair, and began to rock and sing him to sleep. The tune was a melodious one. The words are hard to render with justice in English, but since she told me later that her husband's cousin, with whom they had sailed over just before the war, had made them, I think it is only fair for me to set out a little of it for you:

"It's in America that we are now,  
In the eternal dark of the forest;  
When winter is gone and warmth returns,  
Hazels, apples and sugar will be growing.

"I greatly despise some of the people here,  
With their drugget coats and big hats on their heads...

"Now we live like Indians indeed:  
In the dark forests not one of us will survive -  
Wolves and wild beasts howling at every turn -  
We're in desperation since King George was forsaken.

"Hail and farewell to Kintail of the cattle,  
Where I was raised as a child,  
Where brown-haired youths danced to music,  
And girls with beautiful hair and rosy cheeks."3

I think it was then that I realised that my own sense of purpose - of the cause - was now larger than my own freedom, or that of my fellow slaves. I recognised in Eilidh MacRae a sister.

Over subsequent weeks, Sandy and I - and the rest of what he called "The Sons of Aesculapius" - were kept busy, less by wounds from frequent skirmishes than by the agues and fevers which ravaged the whole army that summer. I have seen more men die from swamp fevers and other such distempers caused by the South's heat and humidity than by shot or steel. Indeed, I fancy that the greater part of the whole war's 'butcher's bill' perished thus.4

Colonel Tavington was one of the few men whom I do not recall falling prey to sickness. Once I remember him taking some bark pills and port for a feverish headache, but he was never incapacitated by sickness, as so many were. Yet no man drove himself harder.

"You see," he jested with his habitual self-deprecation, "even these infernal insects deem me too sour to feast upon!"

Nor did I ever see him the worse for drink. My recollections of him from those days are of a sombre, quiet man who - for all his reputation as a fierce fighter - was unfailingly courteous and kind to me. True, he did not suffer fools, and on duty he had a tendency to bark at junior officers who irritated him, but there was neither arrogance nor its equally abhorrent reverse, false familiarity, in his manner towards the enlisted men. He expected much of them - yet they knew 'twas no more than he expected of himself, and for that they respected him.

He let me choose freely from his trunkful of books: novels, poetry, essays: from Addison to Young's _Night-Thoughts_, by way of Fielding, Smollett and Sterne. I was enchanted that summer, as betwixt my duties, I began to extend my education in letters and knowledge of the world.

It pleased him that Sandy and I continued to concern ourselves with the survivors of the terrible ambush upon the prisoner escort. He believed that it was his best reparation, short of capturing the elusively ghost-like culprit or culprits, to Colonel Webster - and thereby a means to gain favour with the Lord General. He was almost touchingly naive at times, our Colonel.

Private Herd was back on duty within two months, somewhat scarred about the head and breast, but otherwise sound of limb. He no longer remembered what he had seen and heard, lying in the stream, soaked in his own blood. The ghostly figure had been merely a dream, he thought, a fancy born of pain and loss of blood. The Lieutenant, Richard Courtenay, was a longer time healing. Oftentimes - when the demands of our own regiment allowed - I would sit by him, bathing him through the fever and cough that racked him. He had grown so gaunt and hollow-cheeked that I feared his mother - for whom he had cried often in his pain - would scarce have known him. At length, he coughed up a gout of blood containing scraps of his linen shirt which had evaded Sandy's tweezers and my salt poultices. After that, he began to heal more quickly, and the inflammatory symptoms subsided. But he was still so frail that Colonel Webster had him sent back to Charlestown by wagon, there to rest until he could take ship for home: unfit for further service.

"That laddie will be lucky to last an English winter," Sandy observed. "You never can tell with wounds in the lights. Some are back on duty in three months, others... He must beware of falling into a consumption."

The poor youth smiled and whispered his thanks to us as he was lifted gently into the wagon. Thus he returned to the city from whence he had ridden in May in the full bloom of health and strength...

As the Colonel had anticipated, the Lord General - who spent much of his time near Charlestown, where he had taken over my grandsire Drayton's house - and his staff were his immediate masters. They sometimes ignored his authority over his own regiment. What irked him most was that Lord Rawdon had begun to issue orders detaching small units of the Legion to harry the Rebels and pacify the countryside without informing him. He believed this undermined his position within the regiment, and jeopardised the lives of his men often in pointless minor skirmishes. Besides, it hurt his pride.

Since, like myself, he looked to Sandy as to a father, betimes he would unburden his cares in our company, sharing green tea and confidences by lantern-light.

"How the Devil am I meant to command my own men if a quarter are laid up with the ague, and half are God knows where on Frank Rawdon's wild goose-chases! He sends them out by the handful - never more than 70 at a time - and without so much as a 'by your leave' to me!" he fumed. "If I write to Cornwallis, tell him that I cannot continue in the service if this is how I am to be treated -"

Sandy shrugged. "'Twill do no good, lad. Cornwallis trusts only men whom he has made."

"- And yet swears blind that 'I am the indispensible eyes and ears of his army', while making a fool of me by letting Rawdon do as he wishes with my troops! This is a damnable profession for a man, to be at the beck and call of such imbeciles! I've written André about it... If Sir Henry will let me go back to New York -"

"Have you heard aught of Captain Huck,5 sir?" I asked (I could not bear to hear the Colonel talk of even the possibility of leaving us...). Huck - a Pennsylvania-German lawyer, late of Emmerich's - had been sent out by Lord Rawdon a few weeks before, with only fifty horse and some militia support.

"Not a word. I'll take a patrol out in the morning. I hope he's alive - we can't afford to lose good soldiers on their Lordships' whims and fancies, and," he added sardonically, "good horses are even harder to replace!"

But before the Colonel could ride to his relief, twelve survivors straggled back with word of a surprise attack at dawn, at Williamson's Plantation. Chris Huck, still in his shirt-sleeves, had gone down fighting, with a ball through the throat.

Sandy cursed, and the Colonel resolved that if Lords Rawdon and Cornwallis felt free to sacrifice his men without regard for his authority, then he would choose which of _their_ orders _he_ should obey.

And I- I thought of yet another young man whom we would not see again: his hair glinting like sun-bleached wheat beneath his helmet. So the Rebels speak ill of him for the burning an _empty_ church near Fishing Creek. The preacher was off fighting with Sumter, so he had reason enough. Those who cloak treason in piety and preach hatred from the pulpit (as if it were God's will!) he despised as I do. For I had heard my fill of that kind of cant when the Master took the family to church in Pembroke. How hollow Reverend Oliver's sermons rang in the Slaves' Gallery, up the narrow Slaves' Stair... _Injustice_? _Oppression_? What did he or all those well-fed white merchants and farmers, seated below with their lace-capped wives in their brass name-plated pews, truly know of that...? When the war began, after the first news had reached us of Dunmore's decrees in Virginia, these 'freedom-loving' pastors raised no voice against the fate of those who tried to run away...

But this is not the place to dwell on it. I am thinking again of Captain Huck. Unlike the rest of us, he was at least now at peace.

Our base for most of that summer was a fortified camp at Camden. When he rejoined us there in early August, Lord Cornwallis was desirous that we should call it 'Fort Carolina', but the name which stuck was 'Log-town', on account of its palisades and timber constructions. Not that His Lordship dwelled within our tented village. He and his staff had taken over, as their headquarters, an elegant plantation house within a smaller stockade.

"He should inscribe above the porch, 'Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter'..." said the Colonel wryly.

Indeed, since the fever cases continued to increase, hope was not in great supply. At least we were able to establish a permanent field hospital, with room for some of the more serious cases in comfortable buildings.

All my friends felt that this was a place in which we were secure and settled. The young MacRaes played with other army children safe behind the palisaded walls which Jonah and Caleb helped to build. Deb nursed in the hospital, and Josh tended the horses.

I was now truly a daughter of the regiment. A looted house provided me with a black safeguard, or riding-skirt with breeches beneath, which, even with the hem shortened to a little above my ankle, was both modest and practical. I wore it with a linen shirt and smock such as the Dragoons wore informally in summer.

There is neither time nor space for me to write at length of all my acquaintances of those days. I had little to do with the senior officers - Lords Cornwallis and Rawdon, and General O'Hara - although Cornwallis' two hounds, Mars and Jupiter, would sometimes nose around the camp looking for scraps. They were good-natured dogs, despite their size, and I would sometimes pet them if they approached. The Colonel thought they were spoilt, however, and used to shoo them off.

"If His Lordship were as careful of my men as he is of his hounds, I'd have scant cause for complaint," he said.

"My master loved his hunting dogs better than his slaves," I answered, "but 'tis no fault of the beasts if the owner be a fool, sir."

He gave a half-smile, his intense expression softening a little. "Very true, Miss Augusta; very true indeed. I shall try to be kinder to them, for that."

For some reason it pleased me when he looked gently upon me. Perhaps 'twas gratitude for his giving me my freedom; perhaps, as Mrs. MacRae had said, knowing that he was protecting all of us who had suffered in the King's cause. Or perhaps 'twas merely that the eyes of the first white man at whom I had gazed directly were the finest I ever saw: grey-green, sometimes blue-green, as changeable in the light as the sea beyond Charlestown Harbour.

Of our Captains, some I recall more vividly than others. Miles Bordon, whom I had met when Sandy first introduced me to the Colonel, was among the eldest, being almost forty. Since Major Cochrane worked fairly independently with the infantry, the Colonel relied on Bordon a good deal for administration and - it must be said - for diplomacy with the general officers. He was a thick-set man, with reddish hair queued back tightly from a rounded, perpetually anxious, and sharp-nosed face. He was English-born, but had come to the Carolinas as a young man, to teach in a mission-school among the Indians, in several of whose languages he had become fluent. This was why he had been placed in command of our Cherokee scouts. Later, he had settled in Wilmington, where he married, but when the rebellion began, he had taken his wife and infants to safety in New York. Before joining the Legion, he had served in a Ranger regiment on the Philadelphia campaign.

Captain Banastre Tarleton I recall as a sprightly little fellow, a year or two my junior. Indeed, being of low stature, he looked even younger, more like a well-muscled fourteen-year-old than a grown man. But for all his boyish looks and pranks - with which the Colonel had no patience whatsoever - he was almost as fine a cavalryman. A British regular, he had made a name for himself as a mere Cornet by capturing General Lee, and now aspired to greater heights. As a fellow-Lancashireman, from a family in trade, I believe he looked to our Colonel as to an example. The Colonel's opinion of him was that he had the makings of a true professional - if he would but grow up and spend less time at the cards or with the doxies.

We were both less sure of Captain Wilkins. He was about poor Huck's age, that is to say, thirty or so, and as tall as Bordon and Tarleton were short - considerably taller even than the Colonel. Doubtless those who measure beauty by the pound or by the inch might have deemed him handsome, for he was built like a plough-horse, with massive shoulders and curling brown hair. For my part - though my husband teases me that I am no judge of manly beauty, or I should never have married him- I would say that Wilkins' looks were spoiled by a snub nose and unpleasant haughtiness of expression. He had joined up only recently, after the fall of Charlestown, and I sensed that neither Sandy nor the Colonel was at ease with him.

Neither was I - for I knew James Wilkins of old.

"Say, aren't you Benjamin Martin's yellow girl?" he asked me once.

"What of it if I was, sir?" I replied. "I'm with the Legion now."

He grinned. "Mightily amusing, ain't it, after what befell at his place? At least one of that family turning out Loyal!" He reached out to touch my shoulder, but I backed away from him. "One thing I never figured, though - whether you be his sister or his daughter..."

"My mother ain't here to answer that," said I sharply. "And I'd thank ye not to speak of it more, sir. That life is dead to me."

"And your master?"

"Dead too, for all I know or care." For I had heard nothing of the family since the burning of Fresh Water. "Anyhow, sir, I'm much surprised to see you in uniform."

"What are you saying, girl?"

"- I always figured you for a politician, sir, not a soldier."

"Needs must, Miss Augusta."

"You bided your time, sir."

"Patience is a virtue. Perhaps it's one you should cultivate. Our Colonel, too."

His arrogance set my teeth on edge, but it was hardly unfamiliar. I remembered him from the balls and routs in Charlestown, when the Missus had been alive. He owned a plantation just a few miles down river of Fresh Water and, like the Master, had held a seat in the Provincial Assembly. He had spoken up there once or twice in the King's cause early in the war, about the time the Young Master had joined the Rebels, but in the four years thereafter... Not a word. I had never heard of so much as a blade of his grass being burnt, or a hair of one of his cattle or horses stolen, unlike those of so many Loyalists. He claimed to have been a Lieutenant in a Loyal militia company, but so far as I could learn, this commission had existed only on paper, if at all. The Colonel had accepted his offer of service for political reasons and, I suspect, to watch him. His actual rank was Captain-Lieutenant, and he was kept under the eye of the ever-wary and faithful Bordon.

Every few days one party or other of our men would take to the road, pursuing Rebels, foraging or reconnoitring. In camp, we kept to our usual routines. Sandy extended my training in physick, and even a little in surgery - the stitching and cauterising of wounds c. (Provided the patient be held down, a good needlewoman should find few difficulties in sewing up wounds: mattress stitch draws the flesh together firmly enough.)

The Colonel seldom permitted our men to be idle: often as not, they could be seen practising their skills with sword and gun. For my own protection, I learned the use of a pocket-pistol. But most of all, I loved to watch the men training with the sword, on horse or foot. I remember the Colonel at fencing practice, first with Bordon, then with Tarleton, one summer's afternoon - a lithe figure in white shirt and black breeches, his long dark hair loosely tied back. When he bowed to his opponent at the end of the second bout, he realised that I had been watching him from the shade of the trees, where I sat darning the jacket of one of my patients.

"Well fought, sir," I said. "And to you," I added, to the two Captains.

Young Tarleton grinned and winked. Miles Bordon, his face almost as red as his hair, nodded, still slightly out of breath.

"I hardly expected an audience for a few exercises with the foil..." said the Colonel, wiping his forehead and neck with his cravat. Yet as he walked past, I was sure that he briefly glanced over his shoulder towards me. Then he stretched, rubbing his back as if it ached a little, and returned to his tent.

But betwixt times, we waited for supplies and post from Charlestown, and dispatches from other couriers. Sandy would share with me the news of his wife Tibbie and four daughters - Euphemia, Janet, Ann, and Lucrece - at home in Edinburgh. 'Phemie was four-and-twenty, betrothed to a writer (in the parlance of his country, a variety of lawyer), while the other three, all born after his return from the last war, were aged from fifteen to eleven. He showed me a miniature portrait of Tibbie and 'Phemie together: I had to pretend I thought them "charming", though, in truth, they were decidedly plain and skinny. But they were his beloved family, to whose almost non-existent bosoms he longed to return.

"I've been away too long," he said.

"How long have you been with the army?" I asked.

"Some thirty years or mair... 'Tis four since I was last at home."

"That's a long time."

"Lucie was seven then. She'll be near a grown woman by the time I'm next home, I jalouse..." he sighed. "But we have to see this through, lassie, whatever the end."

He paused, taking off his spectacles and polishing them on his handkerchief, which, like most of his clothes, had old bloodstains indelibly worn into the threads.

"When I was younger nor you - twenty years old, a medical student at the university - there was another war with France. Most of the regular troops were in the Low Countries, so the Popish Pretender sent his son to foment rebellion. In Edinburgh, we raised a militia to defend the city from the rebels: I was among them - as was that Mr. Hume6 I told you of. Because of my training, I found myself tending our wounded after a battle - a defeat - hard by the city. I'm not wishing to boast, but I was told even then I was too good for military service. But that was when I kent my career would be with the army... If the men who risk their lives to keep the rest of us safe don't deserve the best surgeons, who does, eh?"

The Colonel received occasional letters from his mother in Manchester. He had, living, two older brothers, Hugh and Robert, who were partners in broadcloth manufacture, and two sisters: Kate, who was older, and married to a Mr. Lemaître in the silk trade in London, and Isobel, some years his junior. But he spoke rarely of them, and only with much warmth of his mother and 'Izz'. Of his father, living or dead, he spoke not a word, and I wondered whether - like General O'Hara7 and myself - he might be a bastard.

He did hear from time to time from the few brother officers whom he regarded as friends, notably Majors André and Ferguson, respectively in New York and at Ninety-Six. Then came a letter from Ferguson which sowed confusion and alarm...

I recall him standing at the entrance to Sandy's tent, scratching his head from puzzlement (or else from the vermin which were a general nuisance to all of us).

"If this means what I suspect, then I am afraid; if not... I can't think what's got into the fellow!"

"Let me see," said Sandy.

Discreetly, I read the letter over his shoulder:

"My Dr: Tav:  
"Pray do not suspect me of purposely attempting to confound you, but when an Officer writes to both Sir H: C: and Lord C: requesting to be transfer'd to another Command for no pressing Cause save BOREDOM ENNUI, then a lowly Creature such as yr: humble Serv't can scarce refuse to comply, tho' I hate to put you at such an Inconvenience. By the time this Letter reaches you," - the name was obscured on account of the seal - "will be with you, or at any rate, very close. I can but proffer my profoundest Apologys, nay, sincerest Sympathy.

"Yrs. most truely,  
Pat: Ferguson,  
Maj. 71st Reg't."

"-Augusta, you have thin fingers - can you peel back the paper where the Colonel cut around the seal?" Sandy asked.

I did as I was bidden, peering at the damaged writing. Major Ferguson's handwriting, written with the left hand, was not always easily legible: "The name, sir, appears to be 'Maj: Hanger'."

The Colonel rolled his eyes heavenward.

"Are you all right, sir?"

"_Hanger_... in the _Legion_? If His Lordship thinks this is a jest - I am sure it is not Sir Henry's doing - then truly he despises me..."

"Tsk!" chided Sandy. "The services of a Major may prove useful. The fellow earned a good reputation in the Jaegerkorps!"

"- But a bad one elsewhere!"

I looked from one to the other: "What _is_ wrong with Major Hanger, sirs?"

"How shall I say..." the Colonel began awkwardly. "Captain - now Major - Hanger is a very fine officer when on duty, as in the Hessian Jaegers... But the fact is, in private, he has _not_ the character of a gentleman. Dissipation is not something I wish to be seen to tolerate, let alone encourage, but unfortunately, he cannot be kept on duty _all_ the time..." He hesitated for a moment, but then smiled slyly. "However, I _may_ try to rectify that..."

Later that afternoon there rode into Log-town a military macaroni in the gold-laced uniform of a Hessian Jaeger Captain. He was attended by a liveried and turban'd black page, who carried a pair of small monkeys and, on his shoulder, a gaudily plumed parrot which sang a vulgar ditty beginning, with which the Captain joined in:

"As I was a-walking up London,  
From Wapping down Ratcliffe Highway,  
I chanc'd to stop into a gin-shop,  
To spend a long night and a day."8

George Hanger had arrived...

_TO BE CONTINUED_

**Next Chapter:** Wherein our heroine repels a persistent suitor; the Lord General continues unappreciative, despite victory at Camden; and Augusta learns what happened in New Jersey to make the Colonel the man he is...

-

**Notes:**

1. "Pretty", when used of a man in 18C, means "brave, gallant, strong".

2. Major Ferguson did have 2 doxies, Poll or Paul(ina) and Sal; one of them was possibly a Miss Featherstone. We shall be meeting them later. The "Thracian bard" is Orpheus.

3. The MacRaes' experiences in North Carolina are typical of those of the Highland community, and based on real examples among the families of men taken prisoner at Moore's Creek (as Ruairidh was). "Isd, isd, mo bhalaich!" means "Hush, hush, my boy!". Eilidh's lullaby is _Dean Cadalan Samhach_, by Iain mac Mhurchaidh Mac-Rath (John Murchison MacRae), d. 1780, 'the Kintail bard', who composed numerous Loyalist songs in Gaelic. A shortened version has been recorded by Capercaillie.

4. The overwhelming majority of casualties on both sides in the war were from fevers and other diseases, not from wounds. Malaria was a major danger in the Southern Campaigns.

5. Christian Huck, a young German-born lawyer from Philadelphia, was killed near Brattonsville, where, coincidentally, _The Patriot_ was filmed. Augusta's opinion of him is as one might expect of a Loyalist and friend of Will Tavington.

6. The philosopher David Hume (a friend of Major Ferguson's family) was one of the volunteers who took up arms to defend Edinburgh from the Jacobites in 1745. The battle in which Sandy first got a taste for military surgery was Prestonpans.

7. General Charles O'Hara was one of the massive brood of illegitimate children sired by James O'Hara, 2nd Baron Tyrawley (Ireland), Col. of the Coldstream Guards on a Portuguese lady, Dona Anna. All were acknowledged and responsibly provided for by their father.

_8. Ratcliffe Highway_ is an 18C song about a sailor putting up a fight when a whore attempts to rob him of the change of the guinea he gave her for a bottle of wine. The tune is a splendid one.


	5. Wherein both Major Hanger and General Ga...

**5. Wherein both Major Hanger and General Gates meet with Crushing Defeat**

Some folks are wise, and some are otherwise.

Tobias Smollett, _The Adventures of Roderick Random_, 1748

Major Hanger, and even his monkeys, Sam and Adams (so named for their unpredictable and destructive habits), were soon accoutred in Legion uniform by our tailor, who nevertheless drew a line at dressing the parrot. "The bird's _already_ sufficiently green to pass muster," said Colonel Tavington.

Hanger was passably pleasant-looking, despite a prodigiously long nose, and although his rakish mode of life had aged his face beyond his nine-and-twenty years. He cultivated a melancholic expression which he claimed was "ennui". He always wore his hair in powder, with side-curls: a tribute to his committment to maintaining a dandified appearance in adversity, and to the skills of Scipio Africanus, the valet he had bought in Charlestown. When sober, Hanger's conversation was not devoid of interest: an English country gentleman by birth, he had studied at a German university (Gottingen), and had come to the Colonies in the Hessian service. He seemed very knowledgeable on many subjects, but perhaps not in great depth - his butterfly mind flitting from one subject to another.

But I regret to say that some aspects of Colonel Tavington's judgement of him proved correct. While it was useful in the field for us to have the service of a Major with the cavalry, in camp Hanger played the very devil with drink, gaming and doxies whenever he had the opportunity. Young Captain Tarleton was soon drawn into his orbit, like a playful puppy following an even more boisterous master.

And I found myself being followed all over Log-town by a whimsical but lugubrious-countenanced admirer. I had not realised that the renowned Jaeger had something of a weakness for "dusky damsels", and that I was in his sights... In short, without any encouragement or provocation whatsoever, George Hanger had become besotted with me:

"Cleopatra! Dido!"

- "My name is Augusta, Major!"

"Ah, but you put me in mind of my wife!" He grabbed my hand and pressed it to his lips.

- "Then have a mind for your vows, sir," I answered, pulling free.

"- Would that _she_ had! My exquisite Aegyptia ran off with a tinker some years past - a fellow so bandy that, as we say in Gloucestershire, he couldn't stop a pig in an alley! I know not if she be alive or dead!"1

"I am sorry to hear it, sir, but there is nothing I can do for you. Besides, I'm a quadroon, _not_ a gypsy."

"No matter! Thou art still 'black but comely, O daughters of Jerusalem'!"

And he would have continued about "the tents of Kedar" c., had not Sandy then appeared and asked him whether or not he was sick.

"Only love-sick!" he responded, and for that was chased off for wasting our time.

But Major Hanger was nothing if not determined. Adams scampered into my tent bearing a small scroll of paper, cheeped, and darted off again. I hid the message when the MacRae children peered around my shoulder to read it. It was a sonnet, which began:

"My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;  
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;  
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;  
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.  
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,  
But no such roses see I in her cheeks..." c. c.

Although it was signed "My Lady's Most Obed.t Abject Slave, Geo. Hanger", I strongly suspected it had _not_ issued from his pen: indeed, I hoped it had not, for I did not wish to think any man might be exercising his speculative faculties on the subject of my bosom.

One day, as I hurried past him while he was deep in conversation with the Colonel, he spun around towards me and began declaiming in a theatrical manner:

"'Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch  
One of her feather'd creatures broke away,  
Sets down her babe, and makes all swift despatch  
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay;  
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chace,  
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent  
To follow that which flies before her face,  
Not prizing her poor infant's discontent;  
So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,  
Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;  
But if thou...'"

The Colonel fixed him with a look of mingled disdain and amusement, under which he began to falter: "But if thou... if thou..."

The Colonel smiled quizzically, and quietly completed the verse:

"'But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,  
And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind:  
So will I pray that thou mayst have thy _Will_,  
If thou turn back, and my loud crying still.'"

He bowed to me gravely in acknowledgement, then turned his attention to the Major, who was turning very red: "Hanger, if you _must_ plunder other men's verses when you would go wooing, try _not_ to pillage Shakespeare: it's not very original of you."

I tried not to laugh at the hapless George, but he pouted miserably: "poor infant" indeed!

For several days, the Dragoons were absent, reconnoitring. There were rumours of a sizeable Rebel army advancing, under General Gates. When they returned, Sandy and I had a few more casualties to care for, and the fever cases as always.

I had hoped that a taste of fighting might have cooled Major Hanger's ardour and helped him recover his wits. I have never regarded myself as a great beauty, and thought his worship of me the height - or depth - of absurdity, more like some far-fetched episode from one of the picaresque novels favoured by the Colonel in his lighter moods. But I was over-optimistic.

He and Captain Tarleton had been drinking together and, as I later learned, betting on monkey-races, among other wagers. As I crossed and recrossed between the hospital tents at dusk, I realised I was being followed...

Hanger! I thought. Well, we shall see... I took a writing-box to one of the tents, and decided to stay a little while, hoping that my admirer would get bored and go away in the meantime. I drew up a chair by the bed of one of the patients:

"Well then, Joe, would you like me to write that letter to your wife you asked me about?"

"That's mighty kind of you, Missy... You ever been to New York?"

"No, I've never been out of South Carolina."

"I'd never been out of New York before this war... Well, no farther than Jersey... My Peggy's in New York..."

I smiled, dipping the goose-quill into the ink-well. All was balanced on my knees... "So what would you like me to tell her? How much better you are?"

"- Oh blessed Cyprian divinity!"

My writing box crashed to the ground with much spillage of ink and sand2 as a man, smelling of brandy and tobacco, flew into the tent and prostrated himself at my feet.

"Major! Stop this nonsense at once! See what you've made me do- Joe, I'm sorry!"

The wounded private grinned. "Officers!"

Hanger paid no heed: "What must I do? I am your slave, my angel! Enslaved by your beauty!"

"Let go of my ankles _now_ or I shall scream."

He obeyed - but, reaching beneath my skirts, clasped my knees instead. Since the day had been warm, I was wearing my old jumps and petticoats, so I had reason to be alarmed. The patients were laughing raucously, but if he advanced beyond my garters, he would pay for it dearly...

"Major Hanger!"

"Have mercy!"

"I'm trying to _work_!" I bent to unpeel his fingers.

"How can you be so unjust- Gentlemen, is she not cruel?" he said, pleading to his captive audience.

There was a round of mixed jeers and applause from the tentful of patients. He arose and turned to bow flamboyantly to them. I saw my opportunity, grabbed a piss-pot from under the nearest cot, and emptied its contents (thankfully, of the liquid kind only) over his head...

The patients were in an uproar, and Hanger, dripping from powdered head downward, turned crimson and looked as if he were about to burst into tears. I was shaking with a combination of rage and laughter.

Then he regained his self-possession and drew himself up with as much dignity as a man could muster under such circumstances: "Madam," he sniffed proudly, "you go too far! I am taking you to the Colonel!"

He made as if to seize me by the wrist, but I disdained his touch: "I shall go willingly, Major."

He marched out of the hospital, his back ramrod-straight, and burst straight into the Colonel's tent. The latter, who was seated at his desk writing requisitions, shot him a withering glance.

"Hanger, I've told you before! Never enter unannounced!" he snapped.

"But sir! You won't believe what this gypsy hoyden has done to me!"

He looked imperiously down his nose. "No, but by the _smell_, I do believe I can make a reasonable hazard..."

"In front of the men! In the hospital! She threw a piss-pot over me!"

The Colonel tried to hide a smirk by pretending to cough into his handkerchief. He was not entirely successful. "Pray explain yourself, madam!"

"Sir, the Major was making a nuisance of himself, trying to pay court to me. I was working, but he followed me into the hospital tent, and went down on his knees, and grabbed my legs under my skirts, and so... I - I seized the nearest weapon I had to hand, sir."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Hanger? Is this true?"

"Oh, the perfidy of women! The cruelty of the sex!"

"Is it _true_?"

"Well, erm... Yes, sir..."

"Sober yourself up and take a bath. _Now_. That's an order!"

"Aren't you going to punish _her_, sir?"

"I haven't yet finished questioning her yet. Besides, it is _not_ _your_ place to dictate discipline to _me_, understood?"

"Is it 'because my name is George'?" he quipped.

"No, it's because your rank is _Major_, and I'm damn sure that if I threw you headfirst into a butt of Malmsey - something in which we are sadly lacking - you'd either drink your way out of it or die far too pleasurably for my liking- Pull yourself together, man! You're a fine soldier out of your cups, and I mean to ensure you stay that way. If you thought Major Ferguson too strict for your tastes, I rather fancy you've chosen the fire over the frying pan, wouldn't you agree?"

"But sir... You must understand... I stand to lose _five guineas_ by this!"

"_Five guineas_? Wherefore?"

"Sir... I had a wager with Ban - I mean, Captain Tarleton..." He glanced at me and blushed. "Five guineas, sir, that I... That the lady..."3

The Colonel narrowed his eyes. "I can guess the rest... Hanger, Miss Augusta is as much a member of this regiment as you or I, and should be treated as such."

"But with respect, sir..."

"That's precisely _the point_, Hanger: treat her with _respect_," he scowled. "She is Lockhart's assistant, and if you ever need her to sew you back together again, 'twill go _far_ better for you if she has only kindly thoughts towards you. Remember that in future, Major- I'll deal with the Captain later- Now _go_, before you make my tent stink like the jakes!"

"V-very good, sir!" He saluted, and went out.

I was left facing the Colonel across his escritoire. He buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders heaved: I thought he must be sobbing.

"Sir? Colonel Tavington? Are you all right?"

He looked up at me, tears of laughter streaming down his face: "My dear Miss Augusta... To have been there- 'Twould almost have been worth being ill just to see the look on Hanger's face when you !" - and he laughed again.

I began to laugh, too, into my hand. Then he stopped abruptly, clearing his throat, and tried to return to some semblance of decorum.

"Ahem! But you _do_ realise, Augusta, that you have committed a grave breach of discipline in assaulting a superior officer - even if it _is_ Georgie Hanger - with a... with the... erm, necessaries?"

"Yes, sir."

"And I have no choice but to punish you."

"Yes, sir."

"Major Hanger's waistcoat and shirt are in a befouled state and must be laundered. That is to be your punishment. Understood?"

I nodded. "Very well, sir."

"You are dismissed."

As I turned to go, he added, "Send that boy Tarleton to me. I trust he and Hanger will know better in future than to make wagers on the virtue of young ladies!"

"Indeed, sir. Thank you, sir."

"No - thank _you_- I was finding some of this paperwork infernally tedious, and you've cheered me beyond measure! However, I think we shall be seeing a little action soon... That should keep 'the children' out of mischief, if nothing else can!" He rested his chin on his hand, looking almost contented at the prospect of battle.

Indeed, the intelligence of the Rebels' approach was correct. Lord Cornwallis was on one of his occasional visits back to Charlestown, and command devolved upon Lord Rawdon, a tall, swarthyfellowa little my junior. For several days he delayed the Rebel advance, feigning attacks, then withdrawing, often with our Dragoons covering, as at Little Lynches Creek.

But there were thousands of them before us: the Continental line under Gates - a turncoat British officer - and the German adventurer Kalb, and Sumter's militia. By nightfall on 13 August, Cornwallis had returned with reinforcements, and four Light Companies had come down from Ninety-Six.

We set out from Camden on the night of the 15th. Sandy, Smith (his assistant, a young American) and I travelled in a wagon with some medical supplies: the Colonel agreed with Sandy that it was foolish to expect men to survive until they could be returned to Log-town before receiving any care. It was hot and humid: I wondered how anyone could fight in such conditions.

Early in the morning, some forty of our men, half mounted, half on foot, at the head of the column, charged a small body of the enemy, but were driven back. By dawn, our army and theirs had drawn themselves up in battle order, just past Saunders' Creek. I had never seen a large battle before - the troops all lined up in array, advancing with colours, fife and drum. But the splendour of it soon gave way to the bloody business of war: the thunder of artillery, the heavy veil of smoke from cannon and muskets... Our friends fought well: Colonel Webster was slightly wounded, but the 33rd routed the Rebel militia (Davie Herd later told me some of them had fled without firing a shot!); Rawdon and his Volunteers of Ireland; the 71st Highlanders; and our Legion - Cochrane with the infantry, and our Colonel and Major Hanger (proving every bit as good as his boasts) leading the two wings of the cavalry, sabreing their way through the enemy lines...

Gates fled. The self-styled 'Baron von' Kalb fell. (Strange how, for all their 'Republican principles', the Rebels' heads are so easily turned by any plausible rogue with a foreign accent and pretended title!) Their militia was in disarray.

We pressed on to Hanging Rock, where Sandy, Smith and I began to count the Butcher's Bill, and tend to the wounded. Our cause had got off lightly: 68 killed, a little over 200 wounded. And of our own regiment, we had lost but 4 killed, and scarce past 20 wounded, and but one of them an officer, Lieutenant Donovan of the infantry. Even so, 'twas more than any of us would have wished.

"Still, this is what keeps us fed, lass," said Sandy, severing at the shoulder a trooper's shattered arm. The patient biting hard on a leather strap while his comrades held him down. "We're maggot-worms, feeding on others' wounds!"

The cautery iron hissed and sizzled as it came out of the fire. The man's body convulsed beneath my hands as I sponged away some of the blood, which had sprayed my face and apron. And then he lay still.

"Another one gone, damn it! That's five dead," Sandy said, bitterly. "Betimes I jalouse they do it to spite me... Next!"

"Lord, have mercy..." I muttered. Yet the more of war I saw, the weaker my old certainties became.

The Colonel moved among the wounded, who lay on the dry, sun-bleached grass. Those who were able cheered him. He forced himself to smile and nodded to them in acknowledgement: "Well done, lads! A great victory- Lockhart, Miss Augusta - how goes it?"

"Just lost an amputation, sir," I said.

"You ?"

"There's nothing she's not willing to help with, Colonel," Sandy put in.

"'Sides, sir," said I casually, "I've seen what they sometimes do to runaways..."

The Colonel looked into my eyes, searching... No doubt ladies in England would turn out for a hanging or a flogging, but the very notion of slave rebellion makes the masters more imaginative... I remembered the free black pilot, who had tried to help slaves escape to the British and given them arms - how he died in Charlestown. I remembered how those who tried to flee to Virginia to join up with Dunmore were made an example of in public. How they died a death only used in England for the worst traitors, and that not for near thirty years now: displayed for all - especially for us fellow slaves - to see...4

"...Hanged, headed and quartered, sir."

"You're a brave young woman," he said approvingly, and passed along.

Within a few hours, he and most of our men who could still ride, and some Light troops had headed out again in pursuit of Sumter and the fleeing militia.

We returned to Log-town, and did not see the Dragoons for a few days, as the Colonel chased what was left of the Rebel force.

I was unaccountably anxious - and profoundly relieved when I saw him ride back into camp at the head of his men. In his wake marched a large number of Rebel prisoners and about 100 dishevelled-looking redcoats, and a train of about 40 wagons.

He spoke to a sentry - presumably asking where he could find Lord Cornwallis - then, accompanied by Captain Bordon, made for the mess tent.

I ran out of the hospital tent to greet our returning Dragoons, and find out what had happened.

Major Hanger was grinning. "He's done it again! My God, but he's almost as fine a cavalryman as I am!"

"Major Hanger...!"

"Forgive me, Miss Augusta- We smashed them to pieces - took them by surprise! Sumter and his damned militia! The Gamecock flew the coop, alas, but we've 300 prisoners. We rescued quite a number of our own people, too - the troops from Hanging Rock, and God knows how many militia - some civilians, too! Not to mention a couple of three-pounders!"

"Are there many dead? Hurt?"

"Poor Campbell from the Light Infantry's slain. Three troopers dead, six wounded. I'll see that they're unloaded."

"Thank you, Major!"

"How are my monkeys?"

"Very well - Skip's been taking real good care of them, so I don't think they've eaten anything they shouldn't- And of Polly, too!"

"- I've a mind to rechristen that bird 'Charlie' - it talks as much sense..."

"Now, now, Major!"

He gave me a wistful look. (He had learned his lesson, and, I am glad to say, now seemed content to be on friendly terms, though his other escapades in camp continued, abetted by young Tarleton.)

I relayed the news to Sandy, and we began preparing dressings for our new patients, while Smith took charge from Hanger to get them into the hospital tent.

'Twas then that the Colonel - bareheaded, his face and uniform still streaked with mud, blood and sweat - strode in. Surprisingly, for a man who had just won an impressive victory, he looked deeply despondent. I wondered at first if he might simply be tired, but no.

"Congratulations! Weel done, lad!" said Sandy.

"Not as far as His Lordship's concerned, it seems," he muttered.

"Ah!" said Sandy, "But what is His Lordship's opinion _sub specie aeternitatis_?"

"Everything, in terms of my career," the Colonel replied bitterly. "I'm just come from the Mess... Damn those powdered popinjays- I bring them a victory, and not one of them so much as offers me a drink, let alone thanks- And all the while His Lordship feeding good meat from the table to those damned hounds! O'Hara looked down his nose and made some asinine remark that I only follow my _own_ orders- Such airs and graces, and him but Tyrawley's bastard- Aye, _and_ His Lordship 'wants to talk to me' tomorrow about what the Rebels have been calling me in their wretched journals: 'Bloody Tavington', 'The Butcher of the Santee' c..."

Sandy laughed: "Weel, since we've a 'Butcher' and a Webster, we just need a baxter and grocer to have a veritable mercat!"

"He _was_ in earnest, Sandy."

"- But what do they call Pate Ferguson- 'The Bulldog', when he's mair like 'The Atomy' - or 'The One-Armed Devil', when he assuredly has _two_, though not in working order, and ne'er a sign of horns!"

"- He just puts _those_ on other fellows..." the Colonel added with a mischievous smile.

Sandy laughed. "That's better- Isn't it, Augusta!"

I glanced up from rolling bandages. "What do you mean?"

"-We've made him smile!"

"Yes, that _is_ good!" I nodded. When he smiled properly - without scorn or sarcasm - a rare sweetness lit his face, next to which Major Hanger's easy laughter was nothing.

But as he turned his head, Sandy and I both noticed a bloodstain on his cravat, at the right side of his neck - though it was hard to tell how much of the dried blood on him was his own or that of others:.

"Now, lad, is that a cut?" Sandy asked.

"It's nothing - a scratch!" he protested.

"I've seen men die from less, if it takes poison. Let's have a look."

"If you must..." The younger man shrugged and, sitting down on the edge of the cot, removed his stained cravat. The wound was shallow, as he had said - merely a glancing blow from a sword. He frowned as Sandy wiped it clean with spirits. In the frilled opening of his coarse linen shirt, I noticed that, where our Southern sun had scarce touched him, his skin was like milk, with a fine down of dark hair low on the breastbone.

"Augusta, can you shear a bit of soft cloth, just to keep the blood from his shirt?"

I made a small dressing, and laid it carefully over the cut, to shield it from chafing on his collar. Whoever had struck him had been trying to slice his head off, I thought, suddenly realising that he was as vulnerable, as mortal, as Chris Hoeck or any of the others we had lost already...

He looked up at me with those strangely beautiful pale eyes. His cheek, against the heel of my hand, felt almost feverishly hot from riding in the August heat. He smelled of the mingled sweat of man and horse, and the almost metallic scent of blood.

He must have guessed what I was thinking, for he said very quietly: "You mustn't worry about me, Miss Augusta: 'twas the fellow who did this who lost his head - not I."

But of course I was afraid. I was angry, too, that even though he had brought in so many prisoners this time, it made no difference to His Lordship's opinion. He received no expression of gratitude, no heartfelt thanks. And no kindness from his friends could ease the smart of knowing that he was somehow deemed unworthy by his superiors. In my heart I pitied him.

After he had left us, to bathe and to change his clothes, I asked Sandy: "Why should His Lordship chide him if the Rebels call him 'the Butcher'? Surely killing the enemy, and being feared by them, is what he's meant to do?"

"Like every game, Augusta, war has rules. But some folk play by different ones, and some - militia most of all - by none at all. His Lordship thinks the Colonel breaks too many. It's rare for William - the Colonel - to give quarter - but then, I've never kent him seek it, either."

"Why is that?"

Sandy shrugged. "Better to ask why more do not do likewise... The Rebels have themselves to blame."

"What do you mean?"

"Experience is a harsh teacher... The Colonel came over a year afore me, in '75, quite the young idealist. But he's never been far from the action since, and learned better o't. We've both seen things these past few years that would make any man doubt the wisdom of chivalry..."

"What kind of things?"

"Weel, you've heard what the MacRaes went through. And worse. A lot of our men - the Americans, I mean, and their families - have been through hell... Even some o' the regulars... There was one instance, Augusta - that first winter I was out here - '76-'77. I was with a line regiment then - infantry. It hardly matters which...

"It was Christmas Eve, two days ere the affair at Trenton. Can you imagine the snow, the cold, up in the Jerseys...? As it was getting dark, the Colonel of my regiment decided to set up headquarters in a house, a weel-appointed farm, which its owners had abandoned barely hours before. We soon realised why they'd gone. There'd been some kind of skirmish or ambuscade: half-a-dozen 'Death or Glory' boys were lying close about."

"Killed?"

"All save one. There was a trail of blood in the snow, where he'd managed to crawl into a ditch, beside the track. He was scarcely conscious. Our sergeant-major heard him moan, and asked me to see what I could do, so I had him carried into the house. They laid him out on the kitchen table. A Captain - a young fellow, about thirty. Shot in the back, left side - at an angle, thank God, or 'twould have pierced his heart. As it was, he was half-dead from cold, and half-droont in blood... You see, the ball had taken a piece out o' the shoulderblade - driven it into his lung. I got it out, but thought he'd die... But no... though 'twas a while ere he was weel enough to speak. But he wrote down what had happened: I still have the paper somewhere...

"The farmer had taken out General Howe's protection as a loyal subject of His Majesty. He'd asked the Captain to defend his property from plundering by stray Hessians who were in the district... In good faith, the lad had agreed, taking a few of his men to scout around. Then they came under fire - and guess from whence?"

"The house...?"

He nodded. "It was a trap. Even if the Captain had had suspicions, he could not have refused a request for help, being an honourable man. He was the first man hit - couldn't speak, let alone scream to warn the others, hoasting up blood as he was. He lay there helpless while he heard his men dying around him. One of the Rebels - a lad of about thirteen - held a pistol till his head, but the farmer - his father - told him not to waste good powder and shot on a redcoat, and that 'twas better to leave him to die slow... So they left him... Later, he tried to crawl a little way, but rolled into the ditch, and lay there waiting for death."5

I felt chilled, but no more than that poor young man must have done, lying in the snow, waiting to freeze or bleed to death...

"So you see, when the Rebs start greeting about 'not playing by the rules', I'd like to ask them, who was it threw away the rules to begin with?" Sandy said bitterly.

"Did the Captain recover?" I asked, wondering if he had been sent home in a decline, like poor young Lieutenant Courtenay...

The surgeon nodded. "He was a bonnie fighter. The wound healed cleanly: no lasting hurt, save a bit o' bone missing, and his back's maybe a bit sair in damp weather! He was fit enough to serve with his regiment in the Philadelphia campaign - promoted Major in '78. Then Sir Henry gave him Provincial rank of Lieutenant-Colonel with the Legion. That was when he asked I be transferred to join him, saying he'd only trust his men to the surgeon to whom he owed his own life! And since young Lord Cathcart was sent back to the 38th in New York in April, he's been in full command. He makes few friends, does our William, but he's aye true to those he has. True as steel."

I had already begun to suspect where Sandy's narrative was leading, but even so, its confirmation struck home. "_Colonel Tavington_ was...?"

My mind's eye tried to picture him - who seemed so strong and vigorous - lying bleeding in a snow-filled ditch, close to death, hearing his men shot down around him so treacherously... He had brought me my freedom, and shown me such kindness, that the very thought of him suffering - even years ago - sickened me. Had I, at that moment, got my hands on those who had hurt him, I...

"'Tis small wonder, then, he fights as he does," I said, swallowing my anger at a past I could not change.

"Small wonder indeed! Now don't look so dowie - 'twas near four years syne, and you see how he is now!"

Yes, I thought, I see how he is - recalling how dismissive he had been of his latest sword-cut... A man who lives continually on the brink of death, who seldom gives and never asks quarter. How many more times could he escape? I shivered inwardly in fear.

_TO BE CONTINUED_

**Next Chapter: **Wherein a 'Ghost' begins his depredations, and His Lordship's garden party goes with a 'bang'...

-

**Notes:**

1. George Hanger's marriage to a Gypsy who eloped with a bandy-legged tinker: this is true. You couldn't make up George if you tried, and you can't explain him. Georgie simply _was_...

2. Sand in the writing box: a small box of sand was used as blotter.

3. Betting on a woman's honour: Ban Tarleton did this again in London, thereby attaching himself to the actress/courtesan/author Mary Robinson for about 15 years...

4. Captured runaways in a time of rebellion: some slaves were indeed publicly hanged, beheaded and quartered for trying to run away to join Dunmore's Loyal Black regiment. Jeremiah Thomas, the free black pilot Augusta mentions, was condemned to death in South Carolina in 1775 for arming and abetting slaves to flee to the British lines, although, ironically, he himself was an owner.

5. What happened to Will in New Jersey: This incident is fictional, but stems from the kind of things that were happening there at the time. Soldiers going to protect ostensibly Loyal civilians did sometimes find themselves being fired upon by the people they were protecting. Pattie Ferguson experienced this more than once in NJ in 1777. Also there were ambushes, such as that in which a Cornet of the 16th Lights, Frank Geary, had his brains blown out in Dec. 1776. With good luck - no infection, bleeding out c.- and rest, there is no reason why Will could not have made a full recovery. Guthrie, in his Peninsular War case-studies, notes a case of an officer back on duty after only 8 weeks following a lung wound, and in good health thereafter. (I decided he had to be ex-17th Lights: there were only 2 regular cavalry regiments serving in the Colonies, the 16th and 17th Light Dragoons, and I can't help but think Will would LOVE the 17th's cute little helmet with the skull-and-crossbones badge! It's very _him_, somehow...)


	6. Wherein We Hear Tell of A Ghost, and I P...

(This chapter has a hint of f/f slash between minor characters.)

**6: Wherein We Hear Tell of A Ghost, and I Pass for a Spanish Lady.**

She's got pendles in her lugs,  
Though cockle-shells wad suit her better,  
High-heeled shoon wi' siller tags,  
And a' the lads are wooin' at her.

Anon., _Tibbie Fowler_, 18C Scots song

After our victories, the Dragoons were much occupied in riding out to harry the remnants of the Rebel forces. Sometimes men who had taken the oath of allegiance to serve the King's cause were captured in arms against us; and those men were executed for their treachery. Three parole-breakers were hanged thus at Pembroke crossroads, but it could scarce be called a reign of terror. Indeed, His Lordship had laid down strict rules for the protection of helpless dependents of Rebels, that they should not be left to starve for the wrongdoings of their menfolk, but retain a portion of the value of their estates. This was more than our enemies had done.

For now dispossessed and destitute Loyalists flocked into Camden, crowding the camp and the town alike. Among them was MacRae's cousin, the song-maker John Murchison MacRae, stricken with a slow fever from long months in prison. There were women and children, too, who had suffered unimaginably during the four years of the Rebels' sway in these parts. The Colonel received a letter from Major Ferguson: he was recruiting men in hundreds in Ninety-Six and Orangeburg, and thriving now that Cruger, a New Yorker, had replaced Balfour of Dunbog.

But as August wore on - and with it passed my twenty-seventh birthday, for all the notice I ever paid it - there were reports of attacks by Rebel militia on small patrols and baggage trains.

One evening, Ensign Jackson, the 71st's assistant surgeon, sat down at the campfire with Sandy, Ned Smith, the MacRaes and myself.

"Three of our lads were brought in wounded this forenoon," he said. "A dozen mair killed. Ambuscaded in a cottonfield, while escorting supplies... They're saying the Rebels appeared from nowhere and vanished likewise. Melted like snaw aff a stane dyke."

"That sounds familiar," replied Sandy. "Does it not, Augusta?"

"Have you told Colonel Webster, Rob?" I asked.

Jackson shook his head. "Why?"

"What happened to Lieutenant Courtenay and Private Herd, in May," I said, "the very day I came in. Davie Herd remembers nothing of it now, but he said then he thought it was a ghost."

"A ghaist? Aye, that's what our lads were saying..."

Sandy polished his spectacles, as he often did when he was turning something over in his mind, and put them back on. "The man you should tell about it, Rob, is Colonel Tavington."

Jackson laughed. "I didnae think he was the kind to believe in ghaists!"

"- Are _you_ taking my name in vain, Lockhart?" said a quiet voice behind us. "What are you fellows scheming?"

"Telling ghost-stories, sir," answered Sandy wryly.

Graceful as a cat, the Colonel moved closer to the fire. "_Ghost_ stories?"

"It sounds as if the Rebel militia who attacked the 33rd the day you freed me are back, sir," I explained. "They made short work of the 71st's supplies."

The Colonel's eyes glimmered silver, green, turquoise, in the flickering light. He fixed Jackson in his gaze. "How many survivors?"

"Three, sir."

"Can they speak?"

"Aye, sir."

"Take me to them. This can't be Sumter or McDowell. If there _is_ another band that we don't know... We need all the information we can get! Get up, Ensign!"

"Now, sir? Can it no' wait till the morn, sir? The wounded will be sleep-"

"- Then wake them! If needs must, I'll take a party out tonight in pursuit!" the Colonel snapped. "Come along, man!"

Sandy followed, but gestured that I should stay behind. As they hastened off, I overheard the Colonel ask, "Was there anything unusual about the attack? The nature of the wounds?"

"Musket and rifle-ball," Jackson replied, "but some of the deid... The corpses recovered... _Indian axe_..."

I shivered involuntarily.

"What is it, _a nighean_?"1 asked Mrs. MacRae.

I shook my head. "Nothing... Stories, when I was a child... But I can't quite recall..."

And again I thought of a dim gleam of silver in the depths of an old chest... The Master dragging me away by the hair, calling me a "yellow bastard"... My mother telling stories by the fireside in the kitchen at Fresh Water... The Master in a red coat, come home from the wars, when I was a child... And again I tried to push it to the back of my mind, because what I feared was surely impossible for the broken, suddenly old man I had last seen with the dying Master Tom in his arms...

A few days later, there were rumours of another attack by this elusive ghostly militia. The Lord General had decided to send some of his baggage back to Charlestown in advance of a planned return visit. There were some surplus uniforms, his own dress uniforms, official and personal papers c. Distressingly, besides the human escort, Mars and Jupiter, the amiable Great Danes, were among the victims: missing in action.

"Can't say I'll miss them! They tried to _eat_ Sammy here last week!" commented Major Hanger, lounging on the sun-bleached grass. He had his long nose in a book, which was printed in an ornate script and a language I could not understand. Yet on occasion, it nevertheless produced in him tears of sensibility, on account of some foolish young fellow called 'Verter' or something of that kind.2 (It was not a book the Colonel admired: purposely blowing one's own brains out was no mark of heroism, he said, when Hanger related the fact that a number of young men in Germany had been inspired to murder themselves after reading it!)

Since the affair of the hospital piss-pot, the Major had improved his manners towards me, and indeed was by no means disagreeable company when sober. He scratched between the ears of one of his monkeys, which, dressed in its miniature Legion jacket, clung to his shoulder.

"Perhaps 'twas rash of you to let him and Adams ride them jockey-fashion, poor mites!" said I.

He laughed. "Another wager of mine with young Banastre!"

"But are _you_ not old enough to know better, sir?" I parried, cocking an eyebrow.

"Dear Miss Augusta, were you _born_ practical? You're younger than I, but I'm sure I'll never have so much sense. Indeed, I hope I don't!"

"I was born _a slave_," I said. "It concentrates the mind."

"My commiserations."

"_You_ would not have had any part in the hounds vanishing, would you? Even in jest?"

He widened his eyes. "Lord save us! I dared not cross _His Lordship_! No, no...! I think the _Colonel_ does that competently enough to spare the rest of us the effort, don't you!"

Then he smiled mischievously. "Strictly 'twixt you and me, Tavington's a passing dull dog, don't you think- Even in Philadelphia, André used to drag him by the scruff of his neck to assemblies and balls, purely from pity- He never looked to be enjoying himself - just stood in the corner, glass in hand, stiff as a sentry and as talkative as a corpse" - and he made an exaggerated imitation of the weary, tense expression the Colonel wore when in the society of more people than he liked. "_And_ he wouldn't take part in the Meschianza.3 Mind, it stretches one's faculties to envisage _him_ tricked out as a Knight of the Blended Rose. Pink and white silk, you know... Not with that funereal phiz of his! More like the 'Knight of the Woeful Countenance'!"

I winced, imagining how unpleasant the Colonel would have found such antics.

"Some people are not so much at ease in company as yourself, sir," I said loyally. "It is a matter of diffidence. Not everyone can shine in society."

"Hmph- Well, I daresay John André puts most of us in the shade... That's how the Colonel got so thick with the Bulldog. Poor Ferguson was laid up all winter, with all the saw-bones tossing coins on whether or not to hack his arm off, and visiting him gave old Will an excuse to hide himself away from all the routs. Mind, if you'd ever heard him try to make small-talk with the fair sex, you'd know this was an act of mercy!"

"He lets me read his books, Major, and we talk about those," I said.

"Yes, but you're not - with all respect - a Philadelphia belle! They like to be flattered and wooed, and complimented on their paint and powder, and their plumes and French pastes! Mistake me not - I like the Colonel well enough! And he's a damn'd good soldier - It's just... He's _no fun_!"

"That may be why he outranks you, sir," I suggested gently.

Sam nodded as sagely as a small monkey can. Hanger sighed. "True... True enough... But do you know something, Miss Augusta?"

"What, sir?"

He smiled. "I think you're falling in love with him."

I drew myself up to my full height (I take my height from my mother's family, being as tall as my old Master): "Major Hanger, you are _most_ absurd!"

"I'd wager on it -"

"You are too much given to wagering, sir!" I scolded him.

"'Tis a parlous pity, when I am repining for you...!" he sighed. "A word of caution: our Colonel may be far too clever to be useful to a young lady of... social ambition. In the choice of a lover, never look for any other accomplishment, or any perfection, except a handsome face, an elegant shape, and manly appearance. The more stupid your ass you have to deal with, with greater ease and facility will you be able to play upon him, and use him as an instrument of your wants and pleasures. Which is why I humbly recommend myself to you, of course."4

"Sam," I said, chucking the monkey under its chin, "Keep your master under control, will you?"

The little creature blinked and chirruped at me. I am sure it understood every word.

Of course I was not falling in love with the Colonel. The very idea was ridiculous. How typical of Major Hanger to assume that, merely because he himself became besotted with every member of the opposite sex on whom he chanced, I should be so foolish myself. It was true that I was forever indebted to him for securing my liberty; true also, that he had been so kind as to permit to read his books, and that betwixt these and the few non-surgical volumes Sandy carried, my knowledge of the wider world and its works was expanding rapidly.

When all three of us had time to spare, I relished our conversations and discussions - by the fire, or in Sandy's tent - while Mrs. MacRae brewed tea. These two men were my teachers and my friends, ever challenging the limits of my experience, making me question the simplicities of my old life, what I soon realised had been a blind and naive religion... And I asked questions, of Sterne and Smollett, of Fielding, even of Hume, whom Sandy had known personally from his youth, defending his city... The Colonel too encouraged me to bring him samples of the wildflowers and herbs which I used, for him to sketch: he had an interest in the study of plants, and could make the most detailed drawings of leaf and flower forms. But I knew that, as for Sandy I filled the place of his beloved daughters, for him I served as a shadow of his younger sister, Isobel.

"'Tis a pity I cannot introduce you to Izz, Miss Augusta," he said one day, as we fed apples to Bayard, his big, gentle horse. "You are so alike."

"I doubt that, sir. She's a proper English lady; I'm just a quadroon -"

He laughed a little. "Ah, but she's also a lady of decided opinions - doesn't suffer fools."

- Now there's a trait that runs in the family, I thought.

"- Nor does she trip about on cork heels, fretting over face-paint or netting handkerchiefs. When she has not her nose in a book, she's up to her elbows in mud in the garden! She's about your age, but Mother still scolds her for running around like a gypsy, with her hair streaming and her skirts tucked up in her pocket-holes!"5

"Is she married?"

"I doubt there's a man who could keep pace with her! Besides... when we all had smallpox, when we were very young, 'twas Izzy who was marked the worst, on the face. Had she a fortune, it would scarce matter, but such is the way of the world that with neither face nor fortune, her worth goes unnoticed. There's too much judging by appearances, do you agree?"

"Yes, sir."

Bayard's velvet-soft muzzle snuffled against my palm. I smiled, and slowly raised my other hand to stroke his smooth coat. He whinnied.

"Still," the Colonel sighed, "Mother finds her indispensable."

"And your father?" I asked cautiously.

His tone of voice - indeed, every aspect of his mien - changed abruptly. All warmth vanished. "Our father is dead."

"Forgive me, sir. I am sorry."

"Don't be. 'Tis more than twenty years since... Have you a father?"

"I am a bastard, sir," said I. For my father had been no father to me: only a Master.

"As I thought. You are lucky, then," he replied bleakly. He patted Bayard's nose, and strode away.

And at times, when I saw him stretch and rub his back when he was tired, I was touched with compassion for the wound he had suffered long before I had met him. And each time he set out from camp on some foray in pursuit of the Rebels, a pall of fear descended upon me, which lifted only when I saw him ride back, unharmed. I dreaded the thought that he might one day lie on Sandy's table again, mangled and bleeding - or, worse still, cold and dead in a roadside ditch.

But surely this was no more than any friend would have felt?

No, I was not in love with him. The distance between us was too great: he was too high above me, and I too proud to risk my mother's fate. It was already more than enough that friendship had bloomed betwixt us.

A day or two after the loss of Cornwallis' baggage, dogs included, was confirmed by the discovery of three-dozen stripped corpses (the whole escort) - the Colonel was summoned up to the Lord General's office. The meeting had gone ill, judging by his expression when he strode into Sandy's tent where we were making up yet more bark pills for the ague patients.

"So, Lockhart, how many will be fit to ride tomorrow?" he demanded abruptly.

"Tomorrow, sir?"

"His Lordship demands results, and since it seems he blames this resurgence of the Rebel militia, this 'Ghost', on me alone, he expects me alone to resolve it. I'll need as many men as we can put on horse."

"But how can it be _your_ fault, sir?" I asked, glancing up from my pestle and mortar.

"He blames my methods," said the Colonel.

"But you've been fighting hard, and so many of our people are coming in!" I protested. "Why, from what we've heard from Major Ferguson -"

"Och, never mind His Lordship!" exclaimed Sandy. "I'm sure he's just sair aggrieved at losing his dogs! If he'd mair officers like you and the Bulldog, this war would be over, lad!"

The Colonel shrugged sadly. "He chided me for what he called 'brutal tactics': how the way we wage this war reflects on _him_ and on His Majesty... My career, he says, depends not on _my_ victories, but on _his_ favour... At least I know where I stand."

"Hmph! A pity Sir Henry left us !"

"Perhaps I should write André, to be transferred to the staff in New York - I'm sure he'd gladly oblige. 'Twould be a pity, though: this regiment means a great deal to me, and as for a desk-job...- But His Lordship knows how to twist the knife - 'Surely a gentleman from a family as esteemed as _yours_...' quoth he. My family honour - Now there's a lost cause!" He laughed bitterly.

"There's honour in making braid claith!" said Sandy.

"It's not _that_ he meant, as you well know... After 22 years, still the same old story thrown back in my face... I'm sure 'twould make his life so much easier if I did the same; but I'd liefer my brains stayed _within_ my head - I've come close enough to losing them before now."

"Perhaps, sir," I suggested, "you should try to humour him. I remember when my master was in a foul temper - if he'd been in his cups, or such - we all had to take care not to provoke him... You learn to play obedient, and smile, and bow, even if in your heart..."

"So you too grew up on dissimulation, Miss Augusta?" the Colonel asked, looking at me with interest.

"To be as wise as the serpent, sir."

"But I lack the nature to play diplomat or courtier, I fancy! I'm sure 'tis easy for some fellows to smile and scrape and wait at table on the general officers - that Tarleton brat will go far, if he remembers not to drink too much of the port himself! But I...? How should I charm him or anyone?"

"There may be a chance soon," said Sandy. "Smith tells me - who heard it from Hall, who heard it from Jamie Webster, who in turn got it from O'Hara - that the reason His Lordship was sending those hounds and trinkets of his back to Charlestown was because he's planning some sort of meeting there. Getting a number of folk there, to propose his new strategies - under the guise of festivities."

"_Not_ a Meschianza?" There was a note of alarm in the Colonel's voice.

"Nothing of that order! Mair like a garden-party."

"Ah. A fête worse than death... Small wonder I'm the last to know!"

"The word is, he's planning to take over that old trimmer Middleton's house," Sandy continued. "Most of the established Loyalists will be there, and, I jalouse, not a few whose allegiances are of more recent date."

The Colonel smiled cynically. "You mean, like our young friend Jemmy Wilkins?"

I took an audibly sharp intake of breath.

"What is it, Augusta? Do you know him of old?"

"Just a little, sir."

"And how do you regard him - you being 'wise as a serpent'?"

I lowered my head. "Perhaps 'tisn't right to be so frank, sir, him being an officer, but... he is disagreeable to me. He used to make free with the servant-maids at the Charlestown assemblies."

"- As did most of the young men, I don't doubt. The question is, _is_ he Loyal?"

"In his own words, sir," I answered. "But how much store I'd set by that..."

"Hmm..." The Colonel rubbed his chin and looked thoughtful.

Rawdon and Webster were left in charge at Camden. The Colonel, who was most reluctant to come to Charlestown, was obliged to leave the Dragoons under the command of Major Hanger and his eager young disciple Captain Tarleton.

I heard later that he told Hanger that he had requested that Colonel Lord Rawdon take direct command of the regiment - a prospect of which he was wary, after poor Huck's slaughter - should the Major fail to carry out his duties in a fit manner. Hanger's efforts to respond and salute in a dignified fashion were hindered by his parrot's interjected profanities. ("Scandalous creature! I won him at cards from a sea-captain!" the Major would explain.)

Captain Tarleton was likewise enjoined to conduct himself in a manner appropriate to his rank and reputation as Lee's captor. (How like the Colonel it was to use against others the appeals to honour with which the Lord General had tried to cow him!) The young Captain's near-parodic show of enthusiasm was witnessed by MacRae, who said that the boy had answered, "Yes, sir!" and saluted at every moment, all bright-eyed and smiling.

But as the Colonel observed, "_That boy_ is ambitious but easily led. If he's set a good example now - even if I have to scare it into him- he'll go far. Otherwise..." - and here he smiled ruefully - "one George in a regiment is amusing. Two could be disastrous!"

I had assumed that I too would be left behind in Camden, but Sandy insisted that. since he was going to Charlestown - leaving the sick and wounded under Smith's care - I, as his ward, must accompany him. "After all, all the city belles will be there."

"Yes," said I, "and they'll recall me from when I waited on the Missus years ago, just as Captain Wilkins does!"

"Not if you dress like a lady," he replied. "The Quartermaster's been hiding away a few looted gowns, which are owre grand for the camp doxies to wear! He was hoping to sell them in Charlestown, but for you, my dear, I'm sure he'll agree a good price."

I had already gained a sprigged cotton gown from one of the Quartermaster's auctions of plunder, but that I, a born slave, should acquire the best silks of some rich planter by this means was too delicious an irony.

Most of the clothing from which I chose my finery was somewhat old-fashioned. Many of the best gowns had clearly belonged to ageing country ladies who had scarce troubled to remake them in the latest styles. Here was a sacque of a cut last worn in Charlestown in the '50s; there a fashionable polonaise ruined by a bodice of the '60s. A lady's maid notes these things, and despairs.

I had also to be mindful of colour. Gold or green were unsuitable, given that my complexion is a sallow olive. Pale hues emphasised its darkness. Luckily, I found a dress that was to my liking in wine-red silk - "the colour of good claret", said Sandy. The skirt was of the older style, more voluminous at the sides than at the back, but in Charlestown I could purchase one of the false rumps which were rapidly replacing the old hinged 'hen baskets' or false hips worn in the Missus' day, to give the gown a more fashionable shape. Elsewhere among the plunder, I found a dove petticoat, quilted with silver, a lace-trimmed shift, and pair of embroidered shoes with silver buckles. I was less fortunate in finding a whole pair of stockings, being obliged to take one of rose and one of white, both clocked with red, which I resolved would have to do. With these packed into a tea-chest, we set out on the journey back to the city.

Our little train of wagons travelled under heavy escort to Charlestown, lest any 'Ghost' should descend upon us, but the journey passed without incident. When we arrived, the Lord General and General O'Hara went straight to Middleton Place. The Colonel and Captains Bordon and Wilkins lodged at Mrs. Motte's house, which was Colonel Balfour's headquarters, while Sandy and myself took rooms in an inn. I was his ward, 'Miss Lockhart', which perhaps raised a few eyebrows, but Sandy, without directly lying, chose to give the landlord the impression that I was an orphaned lady of quality from Gibraltar whom he had adopted.

"After all," said he, "there are Spanish ladies much swarthier than yourself, who pride themselves on their _sangre azul_, without a drop of Moorish blood in their veins!"6

For my part, I spoke very little, lest my accent betray me. In some respects, I enjoyed the pretence, and was amused by it; yet I would also have relished to throw the truth in the Charlestown folk's faces. Still more should I have preferred to be back in Log-town, with my true 'family', the regiment...

The party was due to begin in the afternoon. In the morning, Sandy escorted me to a mantua-maker, to purchase a cork 'Paris rump', to a pawnbroker, for a pair of paste-set pendles7 to wear in place of my own plain earrings, and then to a modiste's for some combs and hair ornaments, and a painted chicken-skin fan. The latter bore a scene of Venus and Adonis - perhaps too _galant_ for my moral comfort, but when the shop-girl said it was of the latest fashion, Sandy insisted that I have it. Then, back at the inn, I bathed and dressed.

Although it had been several years since I had last attired the Missus for an assembly, I remembered well all my lessons in lady's-maiding. I dressed my hair simply, pinning it up, soft and full, around my face, and letting a ringlet fall at either side of my neck. I did not powder it, so that my complexion would appear paler by contrast, and pinned a knot of ribbons and a small peacock plume into it at the side. I mixed rice powder with gum and rosewater to lighten my face and bosom, though not too much (too heavy a painting suggests the wearer has something to hide - either her colour, or scars from pox, great or small). A little red, painted on the lips from a jar: only a thin smear of it, to reduce them...

I stared into the mirror. I liked what I saw. The woman who gazed back at me was not I - not Augusta Martin, the yellow bastard from Fresh Water plantation. She was a lady, a fine lady, with black curls dressed high, and sharp, proud features: sallow, perhaps, but no more so than the French and Spanish merchants' ladies from New Orleans and the Indies, whom I had seen in Charlestown before the war.

There was a knock on the door. It was the inn's servant girl, younger than myself, and just a little darker - not by much, but enough, with her broader features, to hinder her from ever taking the bold step I was about to make.

"Madam, your uncle bade me tell you your carriage is here."

"Why, thank you," I said sweetly.

She bobbed a courtesy: the first time a fellow-slave had ever done that to me in my life. "Don't do that, honey," I said.

She paused, looking at me intently: "Are you...?"

I raised my finger to my rouged lips.

She smiled conspiratorially.

I walked downstairs unsteadily. Not since the Missus' death had I worn ladies' high-heeled shoes - the kind that are truly not meant to be walked in outdoors, save with pattens. Yet the stiff boning of the gown and the weight of the skirts over the false rump lent me something of stateliness which my usual hurried gait, in Master Tom's old shoes, generally lacked.

Sandy was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He had, for once, managed to make his wig sit straight, and he wore his dress uniform coat - the green-faced scarlet which marked us as a Provincial regiment - and a sword. his cocked hat was tucked beneath his arm, and his eyes were open wide behind his spectacles.

"Is it my stockings?" I asked, afraid that they would not pass muster.

"Why no, lassie! It's... Weel, it's most remarkable! Remarkable indeed!"

"What do you mean?"

"Come along now..."

And we went outside to the carriage. The footman bowed, and helped me in. Sandy sat facing me, and, once the door was closed, and we began to rattle along the road towards Middleton Place, he began to explain.

"Eglintoun young again, or at least Mally Sleigh!"8

"Pardon?"

"Half of Edinburgh sought them sixty years syne, and the other half sought to be them! Even when I was young, I've seen folk leaning frae their casements, in every close and land, to see the chairmen come to take Lady Eglintoun and her daughters to the assemblies. Tall and gracious, and all bejewelled! Mind yourself wi' thae young officers!"

"They treat me well enough."

"They've not seen you like this, Augusta!"

When we arrived, Sandy let me take his arm as we strolled into the gardens. We were announced as "Surgeon Lockhart and his ward, Miss Augusta."

I shall never forget the expressions of some of the officers present when they recognised me in my finery. O'Hara's eyes almost popped out of his head. The Lord General smiled and nodded. Even the dour-faced young man whom I later learned was Colonel Balfour offered to escort me around the garden, but I politely declined.

And _our_ Colonel bowed and kissed my hand.

"Well, Miss Augusta, it is a - a real honour that you grace us with your presence. You look..." He hesitated, looking for the right word, and - I suspect choosing to avoid it - said, "_different_."

"Thank you, sir. But I confess it feels... strange!"

He whispered in my ear: "I understand. I detest playing the courtier, too! Someone said Ferguson was here, but I haven't seen him thus far. I'm so glad that you - and Sandy - are come!"

I flicked my fan across my face, lest he see that his words touched me. He, too, looked "different". His dress uniform was quite austere compared to some - the most notable addition being a cravat edged with fine lace - and he still wore his hair in its usual practical (but uncomely) tight queue, with neither curls nor powder. But he was wearing buckled shoes in place of boots, and I thought his legs quite shapely in their white stockings. Charlestown's civilian beaux in their broideries and brocades did not cut so elegant a figure as did he. But then, I think the military scarlet and the straight-backed bearing that goes with it have a grace that draws the eye, to the ruination of weaker-minded females than myself.

"Miss Augusta," said Captain Bordon, bowing graciously.

Wilkins, whom he was watching as usual, smiled and clicked his heels. He took a pinch of snuff from a tortoiseshell box. "Why, you're looking mighty fine, madam."

"Thank you kindly, sir," I replied.

He grinned at Bordon. "You see, sir, Miss Augusta here's surely a fine example of what we call 'washing a blackamoor white'..."9

Bordon looked from his companion to myself, and back again. I flinched at the slight - the most morally repugnant that can be imagined. His jaw dropped. Sandy glared at Wilkins.

The big man continued: "Why, sometimes there's nothin' prettier than a well-dressed house-nig-"

Bordon interrupted him with a cough, and nodded in the direction of the Colonel, who, unbeknownst to Wilkins, had stepped up beside him.

"How _very_ pleasant to see you enjoying yourself, Wilkins," he said acidly. "Lockhart, with your permission - Miss Augusta, would you care to walk with me a little while?"

"I should be honoured, sir. If you'll excuse me, 'Uncle', Captain Bordon." (I deliberately cut Wilkins.)

The Colonel and I walked side by side through the gardens. We did not touch, yet the distance between our thoughts was narrow.

"That fellow has no manners," he said. "He's as ignorant as he is arrogant!"

"I've been miscalled by my Master and his children ere now, sir. But what he said before that was far worse."

"How may that be?"

"You've only been here down South since this year, have you not, sir?"

"Yes... And I must confess I find it hard to accustom myself to the planter mode of life. It's one thing for Ferguson - his brother grows sugar in Tobago and he's been there himself - but... My mother's a pious soul - she corresponds with Mr. Sharp,10 and... Well, frankly, I cannot but agree with her that such a society is... degraded."

"But you don't know what 'Washing a blackamoor white' means, sir?"

"No, I don't."

"Well, sir... May I speak plain?" It was hard to explain with any delicacy, but he nodded. "When masters take to bed their slaves, sometimes they bed their own half-sisters, then their daughters, and so on, until the line breeds white. That's what being 'washed white' means... What they call in Scripture an 'abomination'."

The Colonel stared, stunned.

"Wilkins thinks that's how I got my colour, but it ain't true, sir. My mother was bought in from another plantation," I continued.

"Damnable..." he muttered.

"I'm paying them back now, sir," said I. "Just by being here."

"Do you know many of those here, then?"

"Indeed I do, sir. That young lady -" I gestured to a pale, pretty creature with high-dressed, powdered hair "- that's Mrs. Giles, from England. She was wife to Sir John Colleton, of Fair Lawn, but he died a few years ago, and she remarried."

"Ah, yes - I've met her before, in spring. A couple of drunken troopers broke into her house and threatened insult to her person and her companions, after Huger's rout. The ladies turned up in camp in some distress. The Bulldog and I sorted the matter, and Webster had the culprits flogged."

"...And that painted old trull, with the fat husband - That's Mrs. Simms. She's kin to me."

The Colonel's eyes widened. "How so?"

"My mother's family. Mrs. Simms was born Cordelia Drayton. And my mother is Abigale Drayton, the old Squire's bastard. Miss 'Delia's my mother's cousin, I do believe. And as for Lady Mary there- three husbands she's had ere she wed Squire Middleton. She used to be married to Mr. Thomas Drayton when I was a girl, which makes her nigh to being kin, too, I reckon- and she an earl's daughter from Scotland."

"You are _indeed_ a well-connected lady!"

"Oh yes," I said bitterly. "A pity, is it not, than some set so much store by the skin...? I'm kin to the first families in this colony, but it don't help you none if they can stand you on the auction block and sell you like a horse."

He bowed his head. "I am sorry. So sorry."

I shrugged. "That's why I hoped this war would change things... Maybe 'twill take another war... But I mightily glad of the day you came to our plantation, sir. Mightily. It was a... deliverance."

His pale face flushed slightly, and he forced a fleeting smile. "_Sandy_ thinks you are most useful," he said.

"He's a kind man."

"He saved my life once."

I did not know what to say: whether he would be angry if he knew that Sandy had told me of his ordeal in New Jersey - the ambush, and how, shot in the back, he had been left to die in the snow...

"Oh?" I said, feigning innocence.

"'Twas a few years ago now... I was young and foolish then, far too trusting. Four years in this country can put more years on a man than he realises... But I learned better of it, laid up that winter spitting blood... 'Innocent civilians'!" he exclaimed bitterly.

"There is no-one innocent in this," I agreed.

"Still," he sighed, "it must end soon. If we secure the South, and Sir Henry the North... though the French and Spanish are playing the devil with us at sea. If they were to invade successfully..."

"Will you go home, sir, when it's over?"

"I... don't know."

"But what about your mother? And Miss Isobel?"

"- They want me to do what I can, to make a new life. My brothers are in trade, and prospering... but I..."

"Didn't you say something once about the Ohio valley?"

He smiled - one of his rare unmocking smiles. "Ohio- Yes... Well, we all have our dreams... They gave land-grants in Canada after the last war; perhaps after this one... You see, when I was child, we lived in the country. Then... things changed. But I'd like to have a farm, one day, to make things grow... A man can see too much ruination... But it is, perhaps, just a dream. - And you?"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Do _you_ have any dreams, Augusta?"

I hesitated before replying. "No-one's ever asked me before."

"And?"

"Not any more, sir. I used to dream of being free. I waited for the pillar of smoke and fire, like the Israelites. I know that sounds foolish now, sir, but that's what it seemed like when you came to burn the house... But now I am free, sir... I make the best of it. But..."

Perhaps there was something in the way my voice trailed off, for he looked at me in concern.

I continued: "But I have bad dreams at times - about the old times, at the old house. It's a fear at the back of my mind - something I can't quite see, or touch... Sometimes I dream my Master will find me, and force me back to my old life... I think he would surely kill me, like they did the men who tried to join Dunmore..."

The Colonel shook his head: "Over my dead body - and those of all the regiment! There's not a Green Dragoon, officer or enlisted man, who'd let anyone harm you! And your master would have to be as cunning as the Ghost himself to come within five mile of us! You need have no fears on that account!" Then he broke off and laughed: "- God, we're waxing far too melancholy - far too _philosophique_ - for such a festive evening, don't you think, Miss Augusta?"

"Not at all, sir."

Passing a small garden pavilion, to our right, I heard two young women giggling. I gasped in alarm: they were kissing in a fashion which was more than ordinarily friendly. The Colonel cleared his throat audibly. The women - a brunette and a redhead - disengaged themselves, turned and smiled, brazenly unembarrassed, arms loosely draped around each other's shoulders. The redhead, glancing down, tug at her bodice to cover her nipples, which had escaped the scant covering afforded by the frill of her shift.

"Why, Colonel Tavington!" said the dark girl in a Tidewater drawl. "The Major _will_ be pleased to see you!"

He blushed like the damask roses the Missus used to grow: "Ahem! Miss Augusta, may I introduce...?"

Just then, a familiar figure, in a splendid staff officer's uniform, sauntered haltingly into view. He cast a glance at me, smiled, and began to sing cheerily, though a little off-key:

"We're a' gaein' East an' West,  
We're a' gaein' aye a-jee,  
We're a' gaein' East an' West,  
A-courtin' Mally Sleigh!"

'Twas Major Ferguson, carrying a glass of wine in each hand. Given his crippled right arm, this was an awkward and precarious effort.

"Miss Augusta, a pleasure to see you again! And my old friend Tav- Is she not a picture! You're a gey lucky de'il, William- My profuse apologies for the delay, ladies, but I thought it best to take a circuitous route avoiding Colonel Balfour...! I trust you two have been keeping each other amused in my absence?" he asked, with a wink.

"Indeed, sir!" smiled the shorter and prettier of the two. She had bright hair the colour of burnished copper, and her magnificent breasts, which had lately escaped from her bodice, were pale as ivory.

The Colonel cleared his throat again, nervously. Sharing his discomfiture, I buried my face in my handkerchief, pretending to blow my nose.

"I was, erm, just about to introduce the, ahem, ladies, Pat..."

"- Then the honour is mine! Miss Augusta, these are the Featherstone cousins, late of Virginia: Miss Polly" - he gave a glass to the taller brunette - "and Miss Sarah" - and he likewise gave a glass to the buxom redhead. "Ladies, this is Miss Augusta, Surgeon Lockhart's ward, of whom I've spoken."11

"Well, I'm sure..." drawled Sarah sceptically. There was scant need to explain what she and her companion were, I thought. Oh, they were dressed elegantly enough - doubtless, like myself, from plunder - and they were painted less than some of the fine Charlestown dames on the terrace; but Sarah's necklace was a tawdry affair of cheap coloured glass beads, not pearls or paste. Baggage-train harlots, both of them. And yet there was something in their bearing which suggested to me that they had known better times.

"How did you manage to get them both here?" asked the Colonel, uneasily.

"De Peyster decided to stay with our men, so I used his invitation as well as mine own. Besides, our hostess Lady Mary's one of the Cromarty MacKenzies - daughter to my mother's cousin - so I doubt she'll evict us. Anyway, what think you of the Lord General's pretty _soirée_?"

"I think it a pretty waste of time, while this banditti they call 'The Ghost' is still running free in the countryside!"

"Indeed, William - though of course, his Lordship will claim that this -" he gestured at the assembly "- is all good politicks, to win the hearts and minds of the planters."

The Colonel cast an icy glance around the guests. "I've never seen such a collection of useless, preening macaronis... And for once, I _don't_ mean the staff officers...!"

"Tact and diplomacy, Tav! Tact and diplomacy- You must be careful, speaking so free. We both ken weel His Lordship prefers us to be tactful... Has he given you your new orders yet- That is why he's lured us all here, of course!"

"Not yet... Although I have had the 'pleasure' of being harangued again for the loss of his dress uniform and his dogs, and sundry other predations by this 'Ghost'."

"Ah!" answered Ferguson. "Sadly, exorcism was _not_ on the curriculum at Woolwich in my day, or I'd be only too willing to assist!"

"I'm not sure that's the remedy for so corporeal a wraith; the villain uses an Indian axe," replied the Colonel.

"Maist inelegant!"

"I'm toying with asking André to get me back to New York, on the staff... His Lordship's just now taken against me _again_ for ordering the ammunition and other _useful_ supplies to be unloaded in advance of yet more gold-laced gewgaws and uniforms!"

"_Et omnia vanitas_...!" the Major sighed, raising his eyes heavenward. "Still, he'll be moving you on soon!"

"What do you mean?"

"Weel, since my orders are to operate with my militia at some remove from the army when we go up country, I jalouse that _you_ will be part of that army aforementioned!"

The Colonel's eyes widened. "And who, pray, shall deal with this 'Ghost', then?"

"'Tis just a stick His Lordship's using to beat you with! I daresay he'll let Frank Rawdon settle him, whoever or whatever he is! While _you_ will be riding for Charlotteburg!"

As the gentlemen settled into a discussion of military matters, I found myself unwillingly drawn into conversation with the Misses Featherstone.

"We'll be accompanying the Major, Sal and me" said the dark-haired girl, Polly. "And you, Miss Augusta? Do you ride with the Dragoons?"

"I'm a 'pothecary; I help the surgeons," I said, thinking that they should not assume I was of their kind.

"That's most interestin'," said Sal. "We do laundry and we cook, don't we, Poll?"

"- And attend to any other business that may... _arise_, eh, coz?" the other smiled.

"I wouldn't know 'bout that," I answered cuttingly.

Each raised an eyebrow simultaneously.

"- So how came you to the army," Sal asked, "if 'tweren't in the usual way?"

"When I came into the camp, for refuge, there were some men wounded. I said I knew something of herbs and medicines, and so Dr. Lockhart took me on to help him. There's been so much fever around this summer, that any help is welcome," I said coolly.

"We lost our home," she said.

"My father - Sal's uncle - was a tobacco merchant," Poll continued. "When the war came, feelings were run so high in Virginia... They dragged him out of his carriage... Tarred and feathered him. Took him a week to die with the burnin' pitch on his body..."

I nodded sympathetically.

"You see, we were like them once," said Sal, indicating the pampered belles promenading on the terrace. "Till I was fifteen..." I suddenly realised that, beneath her cheap beads and paint, she was surely no more than nineteen or twenty.

Poll drew the younger girl closer to her, arm around her waist. "I've taken care of her ever since we were children. We live the only way we can."

"And since he found us in Savannah, the Major takes care of us _both_," Sal continued.

"That's kind of him," I said.

"He's a good man," Poll replied, "but then, so's your Colonel..."

Surely they did not think...? I felt decidedly uncomfortable. Whatever arrangements Major Ferguson should form with these camp-women of his was their own affair; but if they assumed that the Colonel and I... They did not know him.

Luckily, when they had concluded turning over the Lord General's plans, the Colonel led me away from Major Ferguson and his fair but frail companions, and back to our old friend Sandy. I had hoped for further conversation, but a young ensign approached: "Sorry to interrupt, Colonel Tavington, but the Lord General wishes to speak with you."

He rolled his eyes expressively. "Later, then, madam- I'll return presently."

I bobbed, trying to hide my disappointment.

"I think this has turned out a most splendid gathering after all" Sandy beamed. "Don't you?"

I gazed out across the little bay, where the long-awaited supply ship stood at anchor. I could just discern a boat being rowed away from her. Doubtless some of the stores were already being brought ashore...

I glanced back over my shoulder. The Lord General had a weary look on his face as Cousin Delia made woeful attempts to flirt with him under the nose of her great oaf of a husband. Someone should have warned her that the loss of his lady, Jemima, still shadowed him and had rendered him proof against her lead-and-arsenic-enhanced charms.

The Colonel too appeared decidedly uncomfortable, with Mrs. Giles and Miss Russell12 fluttering around him like silken butterflies I determined to rescue him by steering him towards Captain Bordon, who was having an animated discussion with Colonel Balfour about the rôle of the Indians in the campaign.

A flash and roar. The ground itself seemed to tremble.

"Oooh! Fireworks!" screeched Cousin Delia excitedly.

The Colonel knocked back his wine and smashed the glass down. I spun around.

The supply ship was aflame. There were screams. Kicking off those ridiculous, uncomfortable shoes, I picked up my skirts and ran down the garden towards the water.

- Another explosion, as the fire tore through the ship's magazines... I threw myself flat on the ground.

The next thing I knew, the Colonel and Sandy were helping me to my feet.

"What the Hell are you doing?" asked the Colonel. "All the other women are running in the opposite direction!"

"The crew- If there are any wounded - I must -"

He gripped me by the shoulders. "No- It's no use- Look!"

The flaming vessel, ripped apart, was already beginning to sink by the quay. No human being could have survived such an inferno.

"We _cannot_ save _everyone_, Augusta..." Sandy said gently. "You should ha' learnt that by now, lassie..."

I bowed my head, shook out my skirts, and turned away, despairing...

A pall of gloom hung o'ercast the few of us who remained loitering through the rooms of Middleton Place, even as the pall of smoke hung over the quay. The civilian guests had fled after the explosion. Poor Mrs. Giles had been carried to her coach in a dead faint. Cousin Delia had taken a hysterick fit, obliging her fat husband - no doubt to his satisfaction - to douse her with a pitcher of cold water...

The Lord General gathered the officers together in the drawing room, for an emergency council of war. Sandy, a few other doctors and clergy, and we scant few army females picked over the food in the dining room. The cold meats and dainties had been intended to be served on the terrace, but few of us felt much like eating.

"'Tis sure a mighty shame what a spark in a powder-magazine can do!" Poll remarked, between bites of chicken leg. She, at, least had not lost her appetite.

"Why indeed," Sal agreed, with a sigh which threatened to force her breasts out of her bodice again. "Jes' like that awful accident in May, when we'd come into Charlestown..."

"I'm no' sure 'twas an accident," Sandy interrupted.

"How do you mean?" I asked, puzzled. "The Colonel had asked that the powder and shot be disembarked - 'Twas easy enough for some carelessness or mischance -"

Sandy blinked solemnly behind his spectacles. "There's evil work afoot... I am sure o't..."

Major Ferguson, Colonel Tavington and our other officers returned shortly afterwards in low spirits, leaving the Generals to deliberate together.

Captain Bordon muttered: "I don't see how it could have been this 'Ghost'! There have been no reports of militia activity this close to Charlestown! My scouts -"

Wilkins sneered. "You trust your _Indians_ - sir?"

Bordon, for all his lack of height, drew himself up as far as he could (about the middle of Wilkins' chest), and fixed him with a cold stare. For once I saw something approximating malice in his face: "Sir, I should say that I would liefer take the word of a man like Crowfeather above that of many a white man- But this has been a pretty ruse..."

I saw the Colonel's eyes move between the two of them, scanning Wilkins' face with particular care. Then he turned back to Ferguson. "I gave the order to the master of the ship," he insisted. "He must have checked the papers of any of the soldiery who presented themselves to him..."

"A pity we cannot ask him, then," the Major replied. "How many of the crew burned alive- Fifteen, is it?"

"At least. The Marines were still on board, too - about a dozen of them. Poor bastards- And His Lordship insists once more that I am at fault - as if it would not have happened had his precious uniforms been unloaded first!"

"Have the soldiers in the long boats not been seen since, then?" I asked.

"No," said the Colonel. "And it's all falling into place... The theft of the uniforms must have been part of their preparations."

I wondered, nevertheless, how the Rebels had found out about the shipment of supplies being landed, the place, the time... And I suspected also that the Colonel was turning it over in his mind also.

"Still," Ferguson forced a smile and slapped him on the right shoulder, "Rawdon will take care o't now! We have other quarry in our sights now, eh, William? A 'Gamecock',13 if we're lucky! We'll be back here in triumph for Christmas, and I'll warrant, Miss Augusta, that he'll be dancing holes in your shoon then!"

"Really, Pat!" the Colonel chided, looking embarrassed.

"I wouldn't know how, sir," I answered. I was more at ease with the Major's good-natured flirting now. I knew that he was happily attached to his own strange menage, and that, as an old friend of our Colonel and of Sandy, he was almost a part of our little 'family'.

"Then if these two" - he indicated the Colonel and the surgeon - "are not inclined to teach you, I shall! Though I may be nothing but bone, I _did_ learn the minuet _à Paris_!"14

_TO BE CONTINUED_

**Next Chapter:** Tragedy strikes, fuelling William's desire for revenge

**Notes:**

1. _a nighean_ - "girl" in Gaelic.

2. Hanger's book: Goethe's _The Sorrows of Young Werther_ was first published in 1775. We must assume Georgie picked it up before he left Germany, or acquired it from a Jaeger comrade. An early work in the history of Romanticism, it did lead to a number of copycat suicides, at least according to rumour.

3. The Meschianza: at the farewell tournament for Sir William Howe, the Knights of the Blended Rose wore pink and white silk French 16C costume, and those of the Burning Mountain wore black and orange. I can imagine Will's mortified expression, and blushes, if the organiser, John Andre, had tried to drag him into _that_...

4. Hanger: "In the choice of a lover..." This speech is derived from Georgie's book, _The Life, Adventures and Opinions of Major Hanger, by Himself_.

5. Isobel Tavington: 18C British girls were not just lace-trimmed dolls. Miss Izzy is a tribute to the vivacity and fun of Bridget Tarleton, and Annie and Jeanie Ferguson. Annie was short and pockmarked, and a mischievous Devil's Advocate, and Jeanie was a sprightly tomboy. I felt Will deserved a similarly appealing sibling.

6. 'Sangre azul': the phrase 'blue blood' is Spanish in origin. It means that skin was white enough for the veins to show at the wrist, i.e. there was no trace of Moorish in it.

7. 'pendles': pendant 'drop' earrings.

8. Mary Sleigh (wife of Brodie of Brodie) and Susanna Kennedy, Countess of Eglintoun, were belles of the 1720s in Edinburgh, famed in song and anecdote. Since Sandy was born in the mid-'20s, he would have heard about them in childhood. As he says, Eglintoun was still a great beauty in her middle years, when she and her daughters were indeed watched from the windows as they set out for the assemblies from their home in Stamp Office Close. She lived into her 80s - c. 1781.

9. 'washing a blackamoor white' : a phrase used in the slave-holding colonies (incl. the West Indies) in late 18C. It means exactly what Augusta says: repeated incest until the line bred white...

10. Granville Sharp was an early anti-slavery campaigner. After Lord Mansfield (William Murray)'s ruling in the case of a runaway from the Caribbean backed by Sharp, in 1772 which effectively abolished slavery in England and Wales, and a similar ruling in Scotland several years later, campaigns against slavery in the Colonies gradually gained ground. The Committee for the Abolition of the Trade was formed in 1787. (The slave trade was abolished in 1807, and slavery in the Colonies in 1833, by Act of Parliament.)

11. The Misses Featherstone; since almost nothing is known of 'Virginia Sal and 'Virginia Poll', Ferguson's doxies, I have been free to reinvent them. However, Sal is described as a buxom young redhead: I imagine her as Christina Ricci in _Sleepy Hollow_ mode... Their shared by-name suggests they may have been refugees from Virginia. Since it is unclear from the sources which of them was surnamed Featherstone, I decided to simplify matters by making both of them Featherstones. The hints of sapphism are not gratuitous: women forced into prostitution or semi-prostitution often form close bonds with each other, and in the 18C close relationships between women were regarded with far more tolerance than those between men. Also, the apparent stability of the Ferguson _menage à trois_ suggests that there must have been some bond between the women to override obvious issues of competitiveness.

12. Jane Giles and Jean Russell are real; the assault upon them, Betsy Giles and Anna Fayssoux was punished by Webster as described. Attacks on civilians were punishable by court-martial in the British army.

13. 'The Gamecock' - nickname of Rebel militia officer Thomas Sumter.

14. Pattie Ferguson _did_ learn the minuet in Paris in 1766!


	7. 'Tavington's Quarter'

**7: "Tavington's Quarter".**

Even butchers weep!

John Gay, _The Beggar's Opera_, 1728

Before we set off the next morning, I gave my gloves and comb to the little maidservant at the inn. I did not see the Major and his women again, for they were taking another road from Mrs. Motte's house.

And so we - that is to say, the Lord General, General O'Hara, and several other of our officers - returned to Log-town to prepare for the march up country. Rawdon and Webster had held the command as effectively as expected, but what surprised us beyond belief was how well Major Hanger and Captain Tarleton had acquitted themselves in the Colonel's absence.

The troops, lined up for inspection were sober and smart, as were the officers who had threatened hitherto to drive our Colonel into an apoplexy. When Scipio presented Sam and Adams, and the parrot, even they too were well-groomed. (Hanger said he had been trying to train the monkeys to salute, but so far had not succeeded!)

"You see," Sandy gently chided the Colonel, "the regiment does _not_ immediately fall into ruins if you are absent a few days!"

Captain Tarleton grinned. "That's another bet I've won, Hanger!"

Colonel Tavington glared...

But ruination of another kind was about to descend. Ned Smith, our assistant surgeon, who had stayed behind, reported that the ague had continued to spread through the camp, afflicting soldiers and civilians alike. When MacRae, who had been attending the Colonel in Charlestown, was reunited with Eilidh and the children, she told him that his cousin, John Murchison, had died of it in the night.1

And so we buried Iain mac Mhurchaidh, the bard, in Camden, far from his beloved 'Kintail of the Cattle'. The Presbyterian chaplain of the 71st read a psalm over his grave. That night his widow Janet, who had already lost two of their sons when their home was burned, and Eilidh sang their little ones to sleep with a melody that struck me to the heart. It was not one of the dead man's own songs, but an old lullaby peculiar to their native district. When I asked Eilidh later what it meant, her English faltered:

"I will go homeward, homeward,  
I will go homeward to Kintail of the Cattle...  
I will go myself, myself there,  
I will go myself, myself to Gairloch,  
I will go myself, myself there,  
I will take the great road to Kintail...

Tonight I will lie in the parson's...  
"- What is the word? Stockades for cattle... For sheep, it is 'fank'. - 'Tomorrow, go with the beasts to slaughter'," she said. "What is the English, now, for what you keep cattle in?"

"_Pens_, I s'pose," I answered. "'Tonight I will lie in the parson's _cow-pens_'."

_Tomorrow go with the beasts to slaughter_...2

But I should be a liar if I pretended that I felt so much as an involuntary shiver then.

Lord Rawdon assured everyone that he would crush the 'Ghost' in our absence. I fancy this piqued the Colonel somewhat, as he would have liked the credit for himself, for his professional reputation and honour in the General's eyes. He was otherwise little given to vanity.

But as we left Camden - leaving behind most of the wives and families, and Hanger reluctantly leaving Skip and the animals - it seemed as if misfortune gathered around us...

Eager, ambitious little Captain Tarleton fell dangerously sick with the ague.3 At first, when the young man began throwing up, the Colonel blamed his overindulgence in drink, but repented as it soon became apparent that Ban was in danger of his life. Since he was too weak to ride, alternately shivering and sweating, he was carried in the baggage wagon. Sandy and I took turns making bark pills (of which we had to be sparing, for Peruvian bark was hard to come by on campaign), and the boy was bled and purged until he seemed a faint shadow of his boisterous self. He was as short as my old Master, and as he dwindled, he looked increasingly childlike: big brown eyes in a sallow little face, amid long auburn curls.

Major Hanger concluded that he was dying, after waving a hand of playing cards under his nose and getting no response. "No good at all!" he sighed. "Poor kiddie!"

"Ace of Diamonds... Knave of Hearts... 5 Spades, 3 of Clubs and 7 Diamonds..." the young invalid mumbled.

I looked at Hanger: "_That_ sounds hopeful!"

I mopped the sweat from the Captain's brow. He reached towards my bodice. "Now, now, chile! You be a good boy and save your strength!" I ordered him, pressing his hand firmly on his blanket.

He pouted. Somehow I knew he had turned the corner...

But the ague was rife among the men, and although Ban clung to life, many others did not. We buried them along the roadside, as we marched deeper into the countryside, skirmishing along the way...

And so there was no more time for books and philosophick conversation. Although the Colonel was as genteel toward me as ever, we were unable to continue from where we had been interrupted at Middleton Place. But I did not like the back-country for other reasons. There was something in the very landscape which seemed to close in around us as the hills loomed nearer. The Rebels, too, thereabouts had a evil reputation: we heard tell of deeds by a 'Colonel' Cleveland of their militia, who was not above offering prisoners the choice between the noose or cutting off their own ears.4 And indeed, I saw a man come in who had this singular mutilation.

Charlotteburg was a village of about twenty houses and a Courthouse, on which account it was dignified with the status of 'town'. His Lordship determined that we should drive out the occupying Rebels, and so the forces were arrayed with Colonel Webster in command of the light infantry, and the Legion divided betwixt Colonel Tavington and Major Hanger. But while the day was won by our Colonel and Webster (indeed, 'twould have been ridiculous had it not, the Rebel force being a paltry one), poor Major Hanger had recklessly charged a handful of dismounted Rebel dragoons and been shot from his horse.5

Mercifully, he remained unconscious while Sandy cut the ball from his shoulder. It had gone deep, but he had been lucky in that there was no damage to any vital structures.

"Am I dead and in heaven...?" he murmured. "Or is't perhaps the Paradise of the Mahometan, for you are surely a houri... Aegyptia...?"

"George Hanger," I said firmly, "you are in Charlotteburg, with a hole blown in your shoulder and a lump on your head. As our Colonel once warned you, this is when you should be hoping I am forgiving by nature."

"Miss Augusta...!"

"Try to rest, now, and we'll get you through this!"

"This is a rum state of affairs, eh?" said a feeble voice in another cot.

"Banastre...? Still here too?"

Captain Tarleton levered himself up on one elbow: "She's not buried _me_ yet, Georgie, so she won't bury _you_!"

But George's wound haemorrhaged in the night, and he remained wandered in his mind (although how Sandy could be completely certain of this, given that Hanger _without concussion_ was bewildering enough, I know not!). Sandy decided to send him and some of the worst fever cases in a wagon back to the hospital in Camden. We said farewell to him with heavy hearts, for we feared that we might never see him alive again. The Colonel, too, seemed regretful, though I fancy he should have been relieved to be free of Hanger had the circumstances been happier. He always seemed much less anxious when George was not around.

Meanwhile, Ban Tarleton slowly began to rally. He managed to keep down some broth and grits, and a little colour returned to his face. He was out of danger, but I suspected it would be a few weeks before he was strong enough to return to the saddle. He was sorely needed.

'Twas just a few days after Hanger was wounded that the Lord General began to receive dispatches from Ferguson which gave us cause for concern. He had lately left Gilbert Town, where he had been recruiting with much success, and had learned of the advance of a massive army of militia: McDowell, Shelby, the infamous Cleveland and others.

"The General had a message from the Bulldog, part in cypher," Colonel Tavington told us. "Apparently the Rebel militias are mustering in great numbers. Patrick's hoping to play off a little, towards the east. He says Cleveland's involved, so it's likely to be a bloody mess if it comes to blows. Two old men were brought into his camp, after being set upon Cleveland's men while drinking with a son and a friend. He fears they're past recovery: they'd been left for dead, 'barbarously maimed', he says. The younger men were killed outright."

"What's His Lordship doing about it?" Sandy asked.

"As far as I can tell, _nothing_."

"What!" I exclaimed.

"I said the same thing myself... But he countered that we're too much depleted with fever. I'll admit it's hard that Hanger's gone and Tarleton's sick, but I can still put some men in the field, and I'm damn sure Webster will give me some of the light troops if Ferguson needs reinforcements - Cornwallis is prevaricating like an old woman!"

"Mind, Hall says he's sick himself," Sandy said.

The Colonel nodded. "I suppose it may be so: he certainly seemed peevish beyond the ordinary... But, by God, the last thing we need if the Bulldog's in trouble is the General and all falling over with fever..."

"And what of his doxies?" I reminded them. "If Cleveland's militia are in this -"

That was not a subject which bore thinking upon...

There were more letters over the next few days, and little action. The Lord General was indeed running a fever, but with mustard plasters and baths administered by Surgeon Hall, it transpired that it was at worst a severe cold. Ferguson wrote that he was heading towards us, by the road from Cherokee Ford north of a hill called 'King's Mountain': "3 or 400 good soldiers, part dragoons would finish the business", he said.

"Why wait?" asked the Colonel.

But Sandy and I had to admit that the General was at least partly right: that a few days' grace would mean that more of our men - including Captain Tarleton - would be fit to ride. Meanwhile, His Lordship had ordered Ferguson to make for Arness Ford, to meet with McArthur and the 71st.

In another letter, Ferguson told the General he had encamped on King's Mountain. He was hoping for Colonel Floyd to bring the militia to join him, before heading on to meet McArthur. If he had had some dragoons, he wrote, he might have taken the offensive. The Colonel was growing increasingly restless, pacing around, waiting for orders which did not come...

Captain Tarleton, unsteady on his feet as a newborn foal after his sickness, got himself back into uniform and reported for duty. The Colonel looked at him sceptically, but said he'd "have to do". In truth, since Hanger - alive or dead - had gone, Bordon was a better adjutant than field-officer, and Wilkins was plain untrustworthy, the little fellow was now indispensable - even though he looked as if he might yet faint.

At the beginning of the week, there was no further word. Bordon had sent out his Cherokee scouts, and we waited anxiously for their news...

They returned on Monday night.

"Crowfeather has found the trail of a great war-party of whites," said Bordon, "moving away from King's Mountain. He says there are rumours of battle."

"Then we pursue," said the Colonel. "We've wasted far too much time already. His Lordship cannot refuse us now!"

The Lord General, who was by now in better health, at last, gave his approval, and the Colonel set out in command of the Legion horse, with some of Webster's light infantry and a three-pounder, to escort Ferguson, the American Volunteers and the militia safely to Charlotteburg.

And we who stayed behind hoped they were in time...6

"They're coming!"

A buzz of excitement ran around the camp as word spread that the Colonel was returning to Charlotteburg. But soon the mood changed to one of despair. All were so strangely silent, that one might at first have taken them for a procession of wraiths, or the bewitched dead of whom my mother had told me as a child. There were a few stragglers, wounded militia, following. And no sign of the Bulldog, Polly or Sal.

Colonel Tavington said nothing to any of us, but strode past, pale as a corpse, and eyes dead, into the Lord General's quarters to make his report.

"What's happened?" I asked Miles Bordon.

His pleasant face crumpled in grief and disgust. "Never ask me, Miss Augusta. - And those scum _dare_ call the Indians 'barbarians'!"

Captain Tarleton, still looking frail, had a face that matched the green of his waistcoat. "'Twas butchery..." he muttered, and from the bitter smell of his breath I knew that he had been vomiting again.

"They surrounded us," said one of the militiamen, a bandaged, blood-spattered scarecrow. " Kept firing after the white flags went up... Shouting 'Give 'em Tavington's Quarter'!"

"And Major Ferguson? Where is he? And the women?"

"He's dead. And one o' the wenches, I think. God only knows what the other... There must be near seven hundred taken... But they just kept shootin'... I was left for dead: some Loyal people found me..."

Sick at heart, I joined Sandy in tending the survivors' wounds. Piece by piece, the story began to emerge: that Ferguson had been surprised and surrounded; and that what followed had been butchery. Yet some of the men seemed to hesitate over details, and I realised that, as a woman, they were scrupling to spare me the worst.

Colonel Tavington was in despair. I had never seen him brought so low before. Of course, he had been trying for days to persuade the Lord General to let him ride to his old friend's assistance, and now... Guilt and grief were ravaging him.

"Three days too late..." was all he said.

Sandy and I - being the closest thing he had to a family - heard the rest that night, as yet more rain beat down on the roof of Sandy's tent and the Colonel, hollow-eyed and weary, slumped down on the edge of the narrow cot. He had taken his hair out of queue, and its heavy fall of darkest brown - wavy from being braided so tight - made his face appear all the more ashen. It was the only time I have ever seen him take a drink of spirits, and even then 'twas but a single glass of brandy. His voice became harder, clearer, as he went on:

"Three days late... They told us at Smith's Ford... But you could see it as you approached... The turkey-buzzards were circling above the trees... Lots of them... They were still picking over what was left, the graves were so shallow... Limbs sticking out of the ground...

"Some of the wounded were eaten alive by wolves and hogs. We found the lucky ones in the homes of local Loyalists... They said the slaughter continued _after_ the white flags were raised... _Deliberately_. That _my_ name was invoked to justify it - 'Tavington's Quarter' - because of that damn fool business in May!

"- And do you know what those bastards did to his corpse? They stripped him naked and pissed on him... After eleven balls... At least eleven... He was leading a charge, sword in hand, to break their line... Blown out of the saddle..."

"I'm so sorry..." I said: what more could I say? 'Twas hard to picture that lively, gallant scrap of a man - all bony angles and bright-eyed vitality - dead. 'Twas harder still to think of him a mangled and ill-used corpse...

Sandy put his head in his hands: "His poor mother and sisters..."

"...At least he's buried... They let his men bury him, along with the little mort...7 God help t'other one!"

"They killed _Sal_?" I asked.

He nodded. "She was helping with the wounded. They shot her. As for Polly, the militia say she's taken prisoner. I am not... hopeful."

I wondered what her chances were. The older of the two, she had seemed to me a strong, even hardened woman, from our brief acquaintance, and yet... Betimes I had wondered what might be my fate, were our camp to be surprised... And for that reason, whenever battle loomed, or I heard rumour of Rebel advances, I would carry a pistol, with a single ball. A white woman might be lucky enough to be ransomed - but a quadroon?

The Colonel spoke quietly yet clearly - calmly, even. "It is because of me... It is _my_ fault. It should have been _me_, not _him_. 'Twas meant for _me_."

"No, laddie, no..." said Sandy.

I arose from the folding stool, and stepped over to the Colonel. I longed to place my arm about his slumped shoulders, or stroke his hair in reassurance. I reached out, hesitated, and withdrew, not daring to presume so much: for he was, after all, my commanding officer. He glanced up - exhausted, old beyond his years, the lines under his eyes etched deep. By the light of the hanging horn lantern, I noticed a tear glimmer on his dark lashes.

"Then you must avenge," I said softly.

Over the next few days, more stragglers from Ferguson's men returned to us, having escaped their captors. They brought tales of brutal usage: of prisoners hacked at with swords for their captors' entertainment on the march; of 'trials' and hangings by torchlight from the trees. Then there rode in a bedraggled figure in a torn gown and cloak stained with blood and mud, a battered cocked hat on her head, and her dark hair matted and tangled...

"Miss Featherstone!"

Poll threw down her hat: "Fetch me some genever, will you..." And she burst into tears.

Sandy let me take charge of her. She asked me for some herbs to bring down the flowers, and I agreed. But I asked her not whether she feared a dead lover's child taking root in her, or a live enemy's; nor did she, at this time, wish to speak more on the matter. When I helped her bathe, I saw that she was indeed much bruised and scratched, but whether by briars and brambles on the march, or by men's hands, I could not say for certain. Mrs. MacRae and I helped furnish her with clean clothes, and settled her to sleep.

For several days, the poor woman seemed to be in a kind of trance. My herbs - as my mother had taught me - indeed preserved her from the fear she harboured, and she seemed relieved at that. But she spoke little, and slept much, though she cried out in her sleep for her cousin and for Major Ferguson.

At length, however, Poll began to tell me something of her sufferings.

"That Colonel Campbell... He was all right... Gentleman enough for a Rebel... He set me on a horse at the Moravian Towns, to come back here... But some of them...! Lord knows, I've seen men like animals before now, but..." and she drew a deep breath on the long-stemmed clay pipe she smoked, and shivered.

"You're safe now," I said. "Ain't nobody going to hurt you here."

"I washed him and buried him," she went on. "Me and 'Lias Powell did it, in the stream in the hollow... His own mother wouldn't have known him for the blood, and him shot in his face... Near a dozen balls in him, and his clothes all torn... His body like a piece o' butcher-meat... Died in my arms. Same as Sal did. Both of 'em died in my arms... Their blood all over me..."

I ladled out a dish of broth for her. She stirred it, but barely touched a drop.

"She was helpin' the wounded to the tents, early on... 'You mind yourself, Sal,' I told her, but she took no heed. She was always a stubborn little thing... She had such bright hair, as you recall... Such bright hair, loose down her back... They done hit her in the back, and the ball went clean through, and when I turned her over - Oh, I tried to bind her up, but she kept crying out and spitting up blood... And she just died on me. Gave a little gasp and died."

I clasped Polly's hand gently. "Did... Did Major Ferguson know...?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so... Think he heard she was wounded, but no... But she's with him now, with him for ever... And don't I wish the same..."

She paused, as if plucking up the courage to continue. "When we buried them - with a raw beefhide for winding sheet - one of the Reb militia - one of those who'd pissed on Pat's body... he took Sal's necklace. Those glass beads of hers. They weren't anything precious, jes' glass beads. Pat had bought them for her when we came to Charlestown: she'd taken a fancy to them, from a pedlar's wares... I tried to get them back, but he struck me... And on the march, he taunted me, kept taunting me, with the beads - holding them out of reach, then snatching 'em back... He said I could have them if I... if I lay with him. But I couldn't - I wouldn't... He was..." - she shuddered - "like a wild dog... varmin...

"Then that night... I tried to sleep, but he... he and a couple of his friends... I couldn't scream because if anyone had tried to help me they'd have been hanged, for Cleveland had beat Dr. Johnson for tending another prisoner... He laughed that, if there was a child, I'd to name it for him. Rollins, he said his name was: Ezekiel Rollins... And afterwards, he put the beads in my hand, sayin' he always paid his debts. I threw them back at him, saying there'd never be a child in me from him. He spat baccy in my face... 'Twas after that Colonel Campbell took pity and gave me a horse. That was kind of him, him comin' from Virginia, too, and all... I don't rightly know if he knew what had befallen..."8

She laid down the dish and spoon. "I can't eat more o' this, Augusta."

"You must try," I urged gently. "You must get yourself strong."

"I loved them both," she said. "Now they're gone, like everyone else I've loved..."

"And do you think the Major or Sal would want you to pine an' dwine away for 'em?" I asked. "Why, they'd laugh, I'm sure... I hardly knew them at all, but they seemed so full of life..."

"'Tis true," she said, trying to smile a little. "Why, I recall the first time we met him, he bowed and asked which of us ladies would care for his company, and when I said, 'Sir, we always work together', he just raised his eyebrows and said, 'Why, madam, that's truly novel!' He used to say he was a great admirer of the word 'fun'. And so was Sal... She was orphaned young, so we'd grown up together, and... I always looked out for her, after we... And that last night, I was a-braiding of his long brown hair, and she lying in his arms singing...

"Yes, we sure had some fun..."

And I smiled to myself, as she began to eat more heartily.

The Colonel was busy decyphering a coded message when I asked MacRae if I might speak with him.

"Well," he snapped, turning from his desk, "what is it?"

"It's about Miss Polly."

His expression softened, and he laid down the quill. "How is she?"

I sighed and looked away from him. "She told me her person was... insulted."

"That's no surprise. There's nothing to which some of these banditti will not stoop - Cleveland, or that 'Ghost', whoever he is. Poor lass..."

"She told me the name of one of the men."

"Ah!" His face brightened with interest.

"Ezekiel Rollins."

He shrugged. "Not known to me: certainly not one of their self-styled 'Colonels'. We're still not sure how many militia bands were at King's Mountain - assuredly they came from several of the Colonies and from the illegal settlements beyond the Watauga - Bordon's Indians are _very_ clear on that last point. Some of them have dispersed, others headed back over the mountains, God knows where... Still" - and he flashed a bleak, bitter smile - "they will not be my problem for much longer, but I shall inform my likely successor of your intelligence!"

Sandy nodded when I told him of what had passed. "'Tis true, I fear... The Lord General has been berating the Colonel for arriving late to Ferguson's aid, when all the world knows that with so many men fevered, and the General's own orders, he could not have done otherwise... And so he wrote Major André, seeking a post on Clinton's staff. I think the Lord General will be pleased to be rid of him, and, since his illness, the Tarleton laddie's certainly gaining His Lordship's favour."

"But what will _we_ do?"

"The same as we aye do," he answered wryly. "Officers come and go, but everyone aye needs a surgeon! ...Which is not to say I'll no' miss him. He's a fine officer, and a true friend. But the General acts so ill toward him, 'twill be the better for his career if he returns to Sir Henry."

We were mightily relieved to return to Camden at the beginning of November. Almost as soon as we arrived, Sandy snatched up a gazette to read the latest military news from the North. I saw his normally ruddy face grow pale.

The Colonel must have noticed the change: "What is it, old fellow?" he asked.

Sandy blinked and hesitated.

"Not bad news? Not more...?"

"Sir - William - about your transfer north... Your letter... Major André will never receive it."

"What are you talking about- It's too soon for it to have reached him! Or is the ship from Charlestown sunk?"

"No... I am sorry... The Major is killed. On 2nd October. He was deid ere you wrote him."

"- What- How? Why?"

"Taken out of uniform and tried as a spy. He'd been bringing General Arnold back to his loyalties."

His jaw dropped, and moments passed before he managed to find the words. "Dear God... Poor old John!" he sighed.

(I pitied him: he had few close friends, and to lose two in so short a time was the cruellest of blows. Had my mother's curse truly begun to take effect?)

"Mind," he continued, "I suppose 'twas bound to happen sooner or later - some of the work he did... He knew the risks - We all do... - So they shot him?"

"No." Sandy's voice sounded heavy as lead.

"Then how ?" The Colonel snatched the paper from Sandy's hands, and began to read, his eyes swiftly scanning the lines.

"No - this must be wrong! Some mistake- He's an officer of a recognised army - not some self-styled Rebel - Surely they could not have...?"

"He died weel," said Sandy: perhaps the most laconic epitaph the gentleman in question has received, but an honest one.

"- But the means, Lockhart! The means- Will they have us all die like dogs!"

He crumpled the paper in his hand and threw it down. I picked it up and read it myself. They had not given John André a soldier's death, but had hanged him for sheer spite.9

"I am so sorry, sir," I said.

He nodded to me gravely. "Thank you, Augusta. It seems we are being winnowed out, does it not...? And the best taken first..."

He strode off to speak with Lord Rawdon about Ferguson and André, and whether he had succeeded in cornering the 'Ghost'. He had no choice now but to remain serving Lord Cornwallis, whose dislike of him was evident, and hurt all of us who were the Colonel's friends and hated to see him thus slighted. But - and at heart I berated myself for thinking thus, given that a gallant officer's death was the cause - I was nevertheless glad that Colonel Tavington would not be leaving us.

_TO BE CONTINUED_

**Next Chapter:** The identity of the 'Ghost' is revealed, to Augusta's horror...

-

**Notes:**

1. Iain mac Mhurchaidh MacRath/John Murchison MacRae, the Kintail bard, died of fever at Camden in Sept. 1780, his health ruined by his privations as a POW. His widow and children later returned to Britain as refugees.

2._Theid Mi Dhachaigh_ - the Kintail Lullaby, is claimed by both the MacRaes and the MacKenzies. Talitha Mackenzie recorded it on her album _Solas_.

3. Ban Tarleton did fall seriously ill with malaria or yellow fever in late September 1780.

4. Benjamin Cleveland may be a great hero for those on the Rebel side, with a statue, and places called after him c., but his reputation for casual brutality is well-attested in contemporary evidence. The ear-removal story has generally been recounted _in his favour_! There are also stories - again from Rebel sources - recounting with approval how his young sons had been instructed by their mother to hang prisoners in Daddy's absence... The old men whose mutilation by Cleveland's men was mentioned in Ferguson's dispatch of 1 October are mentioned also in his Denard's Ford proclamation of the same day: their arms had been cut off. Cleveland, although semi-literate, later became a judge. He would fall asleep in court, and wake up to give the sentence: "Hang 'em".

5. Hanger was wounded while leading a charge in the capture of Charlotte, but the nature of his injuries is not known. He was, in fact, in command of the Legion at the time, due to Ban's illness.

6. The circumstances leading up to the battle of King's Mountain I have tried to portray as accurately as I could, allowing for the presence of the fictional characters and the fictional universe's different portrayal of Cornwallis (although he really did have a mild fever/bad cold which hindered him being more pro-active). In the real world, it was of course disastrous that both Colonel Tarleton and Major Hanger were indisposed. The references from Pattie Ferguson's letters to Cornwallis are accurate, as is the material on the battle. The Rebels cried "Give them Buford's Play!" and "Tarleton's Quarter!" in revenge for the propaganda they had heard re: the battle at Waxhaws. Sal was killed while tending the wounded, possibly deliberately targeted on account of her conspicuous red hair. Pattie ended his career as he had begun it (as a Cornet in the Royal North British Dragoons, the 'Scots Greys'), on a grey horse: literally blasted from his saddle, sword in his left hand, leading a last, desperate charge. One young Rebel, James Potter Collins, recalled of his corpse: "almost fifty rifles must have been leveled at him at the same time. Seven balls had passed through his body, both his arms were broken, and his hat and clothing were literally shot to pieces." The corpse was abused and buried as described. Pattie was 36 years old when he was killed.

7. "the little mort" - the little wench, or girl (slang). Sal's cheap glass beads were indeed stolen from her corpse, and are believed to be in private hands.

8. There is no historical report that Polly was raped in the time she was in Rebel hands, but given that Ben Martin's scalp-hunting recruit Rollins is not atypical of the men who followed Cleveland in particular, it is not an implausible fiction. Against it may be said that neither Allaire nor Johnson's diaries mention such an event, but then, Allaire and Johnson make no mention of either of Pattie's mistresses. Cleveland's assault on Johnson is attested in the diaries, as are the hangings at Bickerstaff's Plantation. Col. Campbell, of the Virginia militia, was the one of the Rebel commanders who attempted to restrain the men, specifically ordering them not to hack at the prisoners, and did give Poll a horse to return to Charlotte.

9. News of John André's death would have taken about a month to reach the South. As Will observes, there is no doubt that, having been caught out of uniform, death was the proper sentence. But the means chosen was a calculated insult. André's courage nevertheless transcended the ignominy of the gallows. His remains were sent back to London in 1821, and interred in Westminster Abbey.


	8. Wherein We Meet My Master Again

**8: Wherein We Meet My Master Again.**

...a grave, oddish kind of man... the country people called him The Ghost...

Henry Mackenzie, _The Man of Feeling_, 1771

While the Colonel conferred with his superiors, Sandy and I returned to our patients at the hospital, whom we had left in Smith's care. We were relieved to find Major Hanger still alive, but shocked at his condition.

Deborah was bathing him. Always spare of build, he now looked almost emaciated, and his skin was yellowed over like an autumn leaf.

"What happened, Ned?" asked Sandy. "I sent you him with a bullet-wound, and he's jaundiced as a lemon! And where are the fever cases that were with him?"

Smith stared at the ground. "Buried by the roadside... Hanger was the only one alive by the time they reached us, and he'd taken the fever himself. We nearly lost him. Luckily he didn't take the smallpox."

"Smallpox?"

"Aye, while you were up country, we had a visitation."1

It seemed that October had been but a chapter of woes for everyone. At least I knew myself to be safe from that disease, having had it as an infant ('twas that which had carried off old Squire Martin, the Master's father).

"Many dead?" I asked.

He nodded. "The civilians worst - Mrs. MacRae's lost two of her children: the baby, and the little thing with the blond curls -"

"Ketty?"

"Yes... A great pity."

Sandy shook his head to himself. "And what of the fighting?"

"'Twas quiet enough late September, early October - well, we all know now where most of the militia had gone- But the 'Ghost''s back, and the Gamecock, so they're still coming in from patrols, shot at and hacked at... Never a dull moment!"

"Has he been any trouble?" I asked Deb. George _had_ to live. He was a trial at times, but there was no malice in him, and... I sensed that now, more than ever, the Colonel would need people who made him smile, even in exasperation.

"Why no," she said gently. "With the port and the laudanum, he's kept pretty quiet mostly! Skip's takin' care of the monkeys and bird... But we're sure glad you and Mr. Lockhart are back with us!"

Major Hanger forced a grin for me. The effect was grotesque, like a death's-head - save for the fact that no skull has such a hatchet of a nose. "Don't worry, Queen of Carthage," he muttered feebly. "I've merely been jousting with the Four Horsemen... Knocked down three, and I don't think Famine is likely to try... Not with the rice gruel Mistress Deborah makes... Is it true... what's been said about the Bulldog?"

I nodded. "And Sal."

"May those bastards burn in Hell..." And he turned his face away.

And so we settled back into winter quarters: for us the same hard work as ever, for the Dragoons more skirmishing and harrying. The hospital had been moved gradually into some of the buildings about the town, which made life much easier for ourselves and the patients alike. Sandy took a room for himself. The hospital rooms were scraped and scrubbed with vinegar, and fumigated with wet gunpowder and vinegar-steam, and we were able to separate the wounded from the fever-stricken more effectively. The most dangerously sick or injured had their own straw mattresses, while the others shared, as usual.2 The season for ague and mosquito-nets was passing, which was just as well: the Peruvian bark was exhausted and, since it was costly, we had to use instead the snakeroot with which we had eked out our supplies. Food, too, was scant in winter. The salt meat brought from the ships at Charlestown came less frequently, and was as rotten as ever, so we were glad of plundered beasts. At least we had rice for the patients' gruel, and corn-grits. No-one died of starvation, but we all grew thin.

For warmth, I was now wearing something that approximated to uniform: a thick quilted petticoat, or else my heavy black safe-guard, and shirt, with the woollen waistcoat and jacket of a dead trooper. I wore pattens or boots, too, for the autumn and winter rains turned the paths in camp and about the town into morasses.

Poll began steadily to recover herself. "After all," she said with bitterness, "'tweren't the first time I've been ravished..." - such insult a hazard, no doubt, of her erstwhile profession - "Though they were varmin I've never seen the like of before, and if I ever see that bastard Rollins again, I'll make him pay." But she was a woman of uncommon courage and resilience, and was more than willing to aid me and Deb, and the other women in care of the sick and wounded, as winter drew nigh. She lived in the tent with me and the MacRaes.

Eilidh had borne stoically the loss of her two youngest children - baby Murchaidh, and four-year-old Catriona. The other three were all marked, but not severely.

"It is living like this which has done it," she said. "Better if we had stayed in our own country..."

Her older children soon regained their strength, and in their care and needs, and the daily toil of laundry and cooking, she had little time to grieve. So many women in camp lost children from disease that all had to harden themselves to it.

The Colonel began to give more responsibility to Captain Tarleton, who had much recovered, to keep him out of trouble while his friend Major Hanger was sick in the hospital. It worked at least part of the time, and he proved that his capture of General Lee, early in the war, had been no mere fluke of luck. Separated from Hanger, he was an effective officer, and eager to be well-regarded. He had, at least, chosen the honourable profession of arms, rather than that most shameful one of his family, in the trading of human flesh.

But Sandy and I worried about the Colonel. He blamed himself still for obeying His Lordship's orders, thereby arriving too late to aid Major Ferguson. There had always been a vein of melancholy in his character; now it troubled me to see him so cast down. He read no more novels, but Young's _Night-Thoughts_. When I asked his leave to look upon it, I saw he had scribed pencil lines beneath such words as:

...and from an eye  
Of tenderness let heavenly pity fall  
On me, more justly number'd with the dead.  
This is the desert, this the solitude:  
How populous, how vital, is the grave!

"- And you believe that, sir?" I asked.

"I merely wonder how many of us will be left when this is over; whose turn will be next," he answered, avoiding the question. "I see men die around me all the time: friends, old friends, endure the worst of all."

"But, sir, surely that is all the more reason to value your life?"

"My profession is such," he said sadly, "that it is wise to anticipate the worst. I have been lucky thus far, that is all."

"And your mother, and brothers and sisters? What would they say to this humour of yours, sir?"

He stared at me for a moment, silent: I had struck a weak place in his defences. He picked up a recent letter from his escritoire, with a deliberate effort at cheer:

"Mother is going to the baths at Buxton, before winter - but this was dated August, so I daresay she's home again. Hugh's wife is with child... And Izzy has got herself a kitten. He's piebald, and his name's Toby, she says, for he's marked with a mask like a tobyman's!"3

"And you _will_ get home to see him, I'm sure!" I said.

He tried to smile: "Perhaps."

The continued predations of Sumter and the 'Ghost' preyed heavily upon him, as if he believed that some kind of atonement lay in ridding the countryside of these banditti.

Tarleton was detached with Dragoons and those of the 63rd who were fit after their misfortunes at Fishdam Ford, to pursue the 'Gamecock', while our Colonel sought the 'Ghost'. Certainly, he believed the latter's death or capture to be his sole chance of gaining the Lord General's favour, having been blamed out of hand for the affair of the supply vessel at Middleton.

He devised a scheme with Colonel Webster, wherein a detachment of the 33rd were to pretend to be an ill-defended baggage-convoy, travelling in parts of the countryside which the 'Ghost' had harried. More men were to be concealed within the wagons, under covers: a pretty conjuring trick. Meanwhile, he and a company of Dragoons were to be watching, ready to sweep down as soon as the ruse was revealed.

And one clear, bright day, late in the month - when the sun glistened cold - he put it into practice...

We saw only the results back at Log-town, of course: near a score of militia prisoners, who were herded into a makeshift gaol in the courtyard outside headquarters. The smaller children from the camp approached with tentative steps, but I pulled them back - then drew my shawl across my face in sudden alarm.

For I knew some of these men.

Several were from Pembroke. Why, even the parson was there, though he did not look so high and mighty out of his pulpit and without his old round wig. Slipping back into the shadows, I wondered if the Master was among them...

No, he could not be. The man I had last seen before the burning house was not a man who would have taken up arms again.

"His Lordship seemed almost pleased, although their commander escaped us," the Colonel confided later. He himself merely looked tired as usual, with little sign of triumph. "Some may be exchanged, but it seems there's a fair number of them had taken the oath, or broke parole... Which means they must hang."

"And the parson?" I asked.

He rolled his eyes. "Sadly, declaiming psalms in public without due regard for the metre is _not_ a capital offence... We got an earful on the road back here! He also kept citing Mark, Chapter 5, when he found out who we were: 'My name is Legion...' Ridiculous, were he not so dangerous!"

"- I sure recall him preaching of a Sunday! He preached treason better than he preached the Bible: he was keen on all the smiting of the infidel - Joshua, and Gideon, and Samson and all - and the fate of Ahab," I said.

"So you _know_ him?"

"There's some of the prisoners from the township near my Master's home - Pembroke. Mr. Oliver was parson there. Mind, he was mighty fond of reminding us in the gallery that 'the powers that be are ordained of God', 'The disciple is not above his master, nor the servant above his lord.'; nay, even to 'pray for them which despitefully use you'."

"'The meek shall inherit the earth', too, no doubt!" he added cynically.

I nodded. "'S far as I see, the only earth the meek inherit is what they get buried in. One thing I learned in my Bible-reading days: there's proof for one cause, and proof for the very opposite."

Sandy smiled: "We'll make a philosopher o' you yet, girl - will we no', William?"

A couple of mornings later, while the Dragoons were on patrol, I had been sent up to headquarters to see if any letters for Sandy had been delivered with dispatches from Charlestown. On my way back across the courtyard, I took care to avoid the caged prisoners, having no desire to be reminded of a life which I had put far behind me.

But just then, the gates of the stockade were opened. I ducked back into the servants' entrance of the big house, and watched a man in civilian clothes arrive, under flag of truce. Behind him trotted Jupiter and Mars, the Lord General's two missing hounds. He would be overjoyed to see them again, I thought! The winter sun shone brightly into my eyes, but as he turned...

The Master? Yes, 'twas surely he! Of course... He had always had an eye for hounds. He must have bought them at market and realised they were stolen, and now... now he was bringing them back to Lord Cornwallis. Which could mean only one thing: he would be seeking his slaves in return... All of us.

My heart pounding, I picked up my skirts and ran through the stockade, through the tents of our regiment. I _would not_ go back. I _could not_ go back. Though 'twere a sin, I should rather slay myself than return to my Master... I wished the Colonel were with us... Where was Sandy?

Breathless, I reached the hospital, almost knocking over poor Ned Smith in my haste as I stumbled through the door into one of the smaller rooms.

"Whatever's the matter?" he asked.

Sandy turned from Hanger's bedside: "Augusta?"

Even the patient's pitifully drawn face registered alarm: "My dear girl! You look as if you've seen a ghost!"

I could not answer. For the first time in years - the first time, I think, since the Missus died, I fell a-weeping.

Sandy beckoned to Smith to take care of George. He put his arm around me and guided me to the room in which he slept and stored all his tools and medicine chests. I sobbed bitterly.

"What is it, lassie? What's happened?"

I sniffed, and cleared my throat. "It is... my old Master. He has come into camp - with the Lord General's dogs. He will... he will be wanting to exchange them... for his slaves..."

"How can you be so sure of that? Mayhap he found the beasts, and is returning them in good faith."

"No, no... He must be with the Rebels... He came under flag of truce..."

Sandy paused. "Then let us hope..."

"- I'd rather die than go back, Sandy! You must know that! The Green Dragoons are my family now! I never felt safe before, never felt I had a place... I beg you not to let him take me back!"

"Hush, now, lassie... No-one will take you from us..." He stroked my hair, and held me. So this was a father's love, I thought, that his daughters, so far away, were missing; which I had never got from my own father.

I dried my eyes on my apron. "Thank you..."

"Are you fear't of him?" he asked gently.

I nodded. "He always had a temper... When the Missus was alive, she tried to manage him, but... Sometimes if your shoe so much as squeaked the wrong way on the floor, he'd thrash you... He was in the last war, and something happened - I don't know quite what - but I heard stories... My mother too... Wild stories... But I don't think he'd ever forgive me bein' here, not after the Colonel had shot young Master Tom... And I don't blame the Colonel, for he set me free...

"And my life before was so small and narrow, like being in a cage, and now I stretched my wings like a bird, and I can't go back in a cage no more. You showed me books, like another world, and all our friends. Not like being cooped up in the garret at Fresh Water, with my Mother, and the Master visiting her at night, and the children playin' the very devil when I was chasin' after them to give them their lessons, and waitin' at table, and... Not bein' able to look no-one in the eye. Not ever. No-one likes an 'uppity nigra', Sandy... And that's what they'd call me. But I'd say I was changed too. Before, I was something that you could buy or sell, like a thing, like an animal... But I'm different now."

Sandy smiled gently: "You're a free human being, and you know it."

And I smiled too, ruefully. "I don't like what I was before. And I won't go back to it."

So we sat for a little while. Sandy asked Mrs. MacRae to make a camomile tea for me, to calm me, and opened his letter. "Ah, good news, my dear!" he said. "My 'Phemie is to be married - indeed, will by now be wedded and bedded!" He sighed: "But a pity she could not wait for my return... To think I could be at home, with a sizeable fortune from leeching the gentry, and promenading with my family on the new brig...4 And here I am, on six shillings a day - a surgeon, not even a physician!"

"You are sorry for it?" I asked.

"I should be sorry if I were not, my dear. For then I should not have made your acquaintance, or that of the Colonel, among many. And I should be sleeping ill of a night knowing that good men were dying for want of care, because so many of my profession place riches above duty. Tibbie's inheritance at least spared my conscience that."

There was a knock.

"- Lockhart! Have you seen Augusta?" - 'Twas Colonel Tavington's voice, calling in some excitement. I looked at Sandy, my face frozen in dread.

The Colonel flung open the door: "Augusta - your Master -"

I swallowed hard: "I won't go with him, sir! This is my home! I won't -"

"Shh..." He made as if he were calming an agitated horse. "I'd never ask that of you- Your old Master's name is Benjamin Martin, is it not?"

I nodded.

"Then Wilkins was telling the truth," he said to Captain Bordon, who was standing behind him.

"Could you please tell us what's going on here, Colonel?" asked Sandy. "The lassie's been scared half to death that her master was come to take her away, and then you -"

He sighed. "I am sorry, old friend. But the fact is, I need Augusta's help, if she will give it. - Anything and everything you know, Augusta, about your master," he continued. "Anything that may lead to his capture."

"His _capture_? What has he done?" I asked, incredulous.

The Colonel's grey-green eyes were wide and earnest: "Your master is the 'Ghost'. And under flag of truce, before the troops, he has openly sworn to kill me."

I saw again the glimmer of steel in the depths of the old chest: an Indian axe the Master had been given after the last war... Stories I had heard as a girl, by the kitchen fire... I saw his face, as it had been when Young Master Tom dies in his arms, saw it transformed again, still bloody, into a mask of hate... For a moment, I felt like to swoon, but took a deep breath, and steadied myself.

"- You did not know?"

"No... But... There were things that made me fear. Things I half-recalled... But I dare not say - I didn't want to believe... I was so happy, with Sandy and all of you... I feared so he would come take me away."

The Colonel took my hands in his, to reassure me. Such strong hands he had, hardened from managing the reins through all the years he had been in the cavalry; but they were gentle around mine. "You are safe, here, as I told you before. "

Bordon smiled at me. "The Colonel won't let him steal you. And I'm sure Lockhart won't either! You're no longer that traitor's property!"

"Indeed!" Sandy agreed.

"But you don't understand, sir," I said, shaking my head. "He's not just my master... He's my _father_. I'm Benjamin Martin's bastard, jes' like my mother was old Squire Drayton's."

Now 'twas the Colonel's turn to look shocked. "Martin's _daughter_?"

"My Mother's own father sold her to the old Squire Martin, Mr. Daniel. Soon as she was ripe, maybe afore, I don't know, then Ben Martin started taking her to his bed. Still does, for all I know, since she left us."

He glanced away, a look of disgust crossing his features. "I am so sorry..."

"Like I say, sir, 'tis the way things are here."

"...But will you help us, Augusta? Will you help _me_?"

I felt my mouth form a smile - a narrow smile as if I felt the old Indian axe slip itself into my hand in the dark of the chest. "Sir, I will help you _most_ willing!"

Sandy glanced betwixt myself, the Colonel and Miles Bordon. "I'm thinking I'd better return to my patients, sir. If this concerns -"

The Colonel nodded. "It's not that I don't trust you, Sandy - quite the contrary. But the fewer people..."

"I understand!" And so he went out, leaving me seated on a high-backed chair, with the Colonel pacing the creaking, juniper-strewn floor restlessly, and Bordon perched, round-shouldered, on the edge of the cot.

"His _daughter_, by God... Now there's a coup!" muttered the Colonel. " So what _do_ you know, Augusta? What did you fear? Has Benjamin Martin the skill to be our 'Ghost'?"

"He has, sir. He never said much to me, but I've heard he had a reputation in the last war. He came back a changed man, when I was but a child."

"_Changed_? In what way?"

"He was always wild, sir, when he was young... But after this... It was like there was something dark inside of him... Sometimes he'd be usual Master, then all of a sudden... You didn't want to be near him if his temper rose... 'Twas only Mrs. Eliza who could talk him down from his rages, sir.

"He killed many Indians and French in the war, sir. He was a Captain, but after the war - not like most of 'em - he didn't like to be called that... At nights, he used to tell Mother things he'd not tell a soul else... And I slept in the same room, betimes in the same bed, and I heard... Betimes I thought I was dreaming, that 'twas not truly so: but now... I don't know , sir..."

"Go on."

"I can't mind whether I heard him tell my mother or she told me by the fire of an evening... But he cut them into pieces. Cut out their eyes."

Captain Bordon's jaw dropped: "At Fort Wilderness?"

"I believe so, sir."

"- What is it, Bordon?" asked the Colonel.

"I've heard the scouts speak of it. 'Tis true they had killed some white settlers beforehand, but... The retaliation went beyond all reason, sir. There were limbs and, erm, _other_ organs, sir... hacked off and sent back to the tribes in baskets. Crowfeather's family - his father and brothers - and even the handful of French who were with them... I believe 'twas a company of a provincial regiment: this Colonel Burwell we hear so much of these days was Major. It was never clear whether he had ordered it, or whether the commanding officer - this Captain Martin, it must be - had taken it upon himself."

I shrugged. "That I wouldn't know, Captain. But Major Burwell was an old friend of the Master's. When the Missus was alive, he and his first wife used to visit, and in Charlestown -"

"Well, well..." the Colonel murmured. "So this is the nature of the beast...Yet the Lord General expects us to treat these men with kid gloves- Augusta, did your Master own or use an Indian axe?"

"Sir, I do recall he kept an old chest in the house, with his old uniform, and other things he was given one by his men, at the end of the war. The young Masters would oftentimes steal a look inside, and try on his old coat, and he'd thrash them for it. And I tried it on once, sir, when I was a young girl, and he grabbed me by the hair and beat me... And there was something that shone like silver in the chest. It had his name 'scribed upon it... Yes, sir, 'twas an axe. Like the Cherokee use."

Bordon smiled thinly: "So perhaps we were wrong about Wilkins, after all, sir."

"In this matter. But that doesn't mean..." said the Colonel. He looked thoughtful. "Thank you very much, Bordon. Inform the men: we now know our enemy! Damn him, I should have cut him down when I had the chance! I only hope he wasn't lying about those alleged hostages! Go see what O'Hara's doing about them!"

The Captain saluted and left us alone together. The Colonel paused in his pacing.

"And you, Miss Augusta - I am in your debt."

I bobbed politely. "The debt is mine, sir: you gave me my freedom. "

"I should, of course, now call you Miss Martin."

I flinched. "Please don't, sir."

"- But you merit that dignity," he insisted.

"But not that name. 'Tis a Rebel's. 'Sides, Mr. Lockhart has been a better father to me than him that got me."

"Then that makes two of us. I know how you must feel."

"With respect, you cannot, sir."

And I told him all my story, of my childhood and girlhood; of how I was made a pet of by Mrs. Eliza who wanted me for a lady's maid or governess; of the Master's scorn.

"He told her that she was spoiling me; that no-one wanted a female house-slave who could read; that I'd be fit for nothing but a whorehouse... That's where they get the best prices for women like me, sir. You see, some of the Masters, if they want a whore or a fancy woman, prefer one that looks near white - 'high yellow' quadroons, like me - or octoroons, who _are_ white, save they're for sale like the rest of us.

"But I'd rather die than be a fancy woman, or concubine like my mother all these years... He made her love him, and she thinks he loved her, but there he'd mow her even as I lay in the same room - in the same bed, when I was younger... And she means no more to him than his horse or hounds...

"I do believe he was near to selling me after the Missus died, but then he figured he needed me to help raise up the children... But he never liked me being around, not really, after his and the Missus' children were born. There was talk of selling me to her sister as a maid, but nothing came of it... And all the time, the children - my brothers and sisters, though I could never call them thus - led me such a dance in lessons and in the house... And I had to bob and smile, and say, 'Yes, Master,' 'Yes, Missy', and never look them in the eye... They called me 'yaller girl' and 'house nigger'...

"And I was always afraid, sir, that if I looked at him the wrong way, or if the children took agin' me more than usual, he'd put me on sale. After all, my mother's father, old Squire Drayton, he did the same with her. You see, it don't matter none whether a Master be kind or cruel, when it comes to it, he can still stand you on the auction block in Charlestown, to be stripped and prodded, and have your teeth checked - like with a horse, sir... That's what being Master means... And even though I'm not so young now, I still feared... But his white children, no, they never had no fear of that..."

The Colonel, leaning forward, his chin resting on his hand, had been watching me intently as I told my story. His brows were knitted, his mouth - which sometimes struck me as too small and delicately shaped for such a lithe, strong man - set in a frown of concern.

"You see, sir, you can't know what it's like... You've never lived in fear of the auction block."

"True," he nodded, " - though the debtors' prison casts a shadow, too."

"Debtors' prison...?"

He nodded. "_My_ father steadily gambled away my family's property when I was a child... Finally, he staked our home on a turn of the cards - and lost. And so he..." - and here he hesitated, groping for a phrase - "he chose a shameful death."5

The memories obviously still grieved him. "I was eleven years old when I learned that even God can't forgive failure. His burial... 'Twas a great scandal."

"I am sorry for it."

"- 'Twas many years ago... We grew up on the charity of my Mother's family - as 'poor relations': the Shawforths have a high conceit of themselves. They paid for my Cornetcy - to take me off their hands, I think... What money the family has now is my brothers', from their broad cloth mills..."

"'Tis a useful trade, sir."

"Useful? Oh, I grant you that! 'Useful' - but trade is trade. And since a gentleman has no trade, the Tavingtons can no longer claim to be gentlemen. This is what the Generals like to throw back at me - O'Hara in particular. He's no more to blame for _his_ bastardy than you for _yours_, but neither is my father's shame mine own!"

"That is most cruel. Anyways," I ventured shyly, "_I_ think you are a gentleman, sir."

He turned his head away from me for a moment, lowering his eyes modestly. I wanted to say much more, but the gulf between us seemed too great.

"Thank you kindly..."

"'Tis a sad tale, sir."

"- Which is why I'm resolved it must end happily. I have to make my _own_ good fortune, Augusta. It's hard to explain that to the likes of His Lordship, but... I think you understand."

"I pray you succeed, sir."

"And you also, I hope. My thanks for your confidence; I trust will you keep mine. If you would prefer to be regarded _officially_ as in Sandy's protection, I shall ask him if you may be called Miss Lockhart."

"Thank you, sir, but no. It is not my name. Just plain Augusta will do."

"_Plain_? I think not," he smiled faintly.

I felt uneasy. "It ain't my place to nay-say you, sir, you being the Colonel."

"But a gentleman should always concede to a lady."

I laughed. "Why, sir...!"

"Miss Augusta it is, then, as always." He bowed, and so departed.

This was not the end of it. About an hour later, word spread from the General's headquarters that the 'hostages' for whom the Rebel prisoners had been exchanged had been no more than scarecrows dressed in stolen uniforms.

"I should have loved to see His Lordship's face!" Sandy chortled. "And O'Hara's!"

Sighed the Colonel, "They have but themselves to blame! I told O'Hara that we should have slain the 'Ghost' while we had the chance! But no - 'flag of truce', quoth he - as if that counts for aught with these murdering vermin! We know how they treated the white flag at King's Mountain!"

He was called to headquarters once more. His Lordship was in a fury of humiliation over the loss of the prisoners by a ruse, and personally piqued at the fact that his hounds had likewise followed their new master out of the camp.

When the Colonel returned to the hospital towards evening, he had something approaching a spring in his step for the first time since early October. He was also carrying a rolled-up map. He drew me aside into Sandy's office-cum-chamber.

"- Miss Augusta- I've spoken with the Lord General about... your case. If you are willing to assist us in apprehending 'The Ghost', he will ensure that you are amply rewarded. His only question is: are you trustworthy?"

"I don't think you need to ask that, sir," I replied.

He looked into my eyes. "No, _I_ don't... But how far will you go in this cause?"

"I would kill for it, sir," I answered calmly.

He smiled gently: "I'm not asking that of you - yet," and unfurled the map. "Wilkins - for what his word's worth - thinks Martin's family may be hiding at his sister-in-law's house. You know the place?"

"Selton Hall? Yes, I do, sir. 'Tis the biggest plantation for miles around. Rich. Plenty of animals, plenty of slaves."

"Useful... And, knowing your father as you do, if his other children were brought under the Lord General's protection as hostages, might he turn himself in? Or make some rash attempt to free them, say? Would they make suitable bait?"

"'Tis a fine plan," I answered. "Finer still, since Mistress Selton's been making sheep's eyes at him ever since before her sister was cold in grave. Catch all his pretty little white birds in one net, and he might do something _mighty_ stupid."

"Well, stupidity seems a family trait - at least of the Martin _men_," the Colonel quipped drily. "So, that settles it, then: we'll pay them a little night visit..."

He pointed out the lie of the roads on the map. There were two possibilities, and I knew them well. "What's the best route?"

"This road's shorter, sir," said I, "but if the Rebels are around, they'll see you miles away. This way's another five miles, but there are trees."

"A risk of ambush?"

"The woods ain't so thick, and the road runs along the higher ground. There's a dense-wooded carriage drive up to the house, though. I can ride ahead and see that the road is clear."

"That is more than His Lordship or I would ask of you. I cannot endanger a woman -"

"But sir -"

"I repeat, I can_not_ endanger a woman whose life is of such value to - to our regiment!" He forced a smile: "What would _Sandy_ do without you? Or the MacRaes? Or Polly Featherstone?"

"But how will you be sure the Rebels aren't...?"

"- I'll send a man on: Caleb's always keen to make himself useful, isn't he?"

"Yes, sir - but if he - What about Deb...?"

He smiled: "He'll have all of us behind him, so tell her not to fear..."

Caleb was sent on ahead on a mule ('for twould have been an uncommon site for a black man to ride a horse or pony), and the Colonel followed after with as much of Bordon's company as could mount because of fever. Wilkins was among them.

They were gone all night. I could scarcely sleep, but turned about restlessly.

"You all right?" asked Polly.

"Sure. You'd better get some sleep."

And I lay staring at the tent roof. I pictured the Dragoons riding up to that fine white house, and dragging out that soft and simpering Mrs. Selton, stiff-laced as the painted wooden baby she'd given Missy Susan, and with as much wits... And dragging out all those little Masters and Missies - Nathan, Samuel, Margaret, William, Susan... I remembered lessons and games - "'Gusta, fetch this" - "'Gusta, do that!" - "I won't read no more, an' you can't make me! You're nothin' but a house-nigger!" "Papa let us climb the hickory tree, so don't you tell me, yaller girl!" and pelting me with the hard nuts... Slaps and bruises I had suffered; words of scorn and humiliation from my brothers and sisters of the half-blood.

"And the brother shall deliver up the brother to death, and the father the child: and the children shall rise up against their parents, and cause them to be put to death..."

And if the Colonel were to burn the house, I thought, he should better burn them with it... Better burn them with it... All the pretty little white birds... Pluck out their feathers. Burn off their pretty little wings. To burn them blacker than me is too easy; burn them blacker than my poor, trusting mother whom you used as a whore, Master, and made to believe she loved you; blacker than my grandmother, who sailed in irons on the great ship before she warmed old Drayton's bed... Justice, Master, would be for you to have no child left but me: the one to whom you were never truly father.

"Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword./For I am come to set a man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter in law against her mother in law./And a man's foes shall be they of his own household."

I was no longer certain if I believed in a God that might do such work in the world of men, but I knew that in the Colonel I had a friend who would assuredly try.

We rose before dawn. The Colonel and his men returned soon thereafter, after several hours hard riding, weary and begrimed with smoke. They brought all the Selton slaves, including some injured: Matthew, the steward, who in his younger days had been her husband's field overseer, had a flesh-wound in the shoulder and one of the footmen had a shattered arm. But their mistress and the children were nowhere to be seen.

I cut away Matthew's shirt, and with my fingers felt for the pistol ball in the fat, gently easing it and the shreds of cotton out of his wound. "You're sure too old to be into trouble like this, Matt Selton!" I said, trying to distract him from the pain.

"'Gusta Martin? Miss Abigale's girl?" He tried to smile. "What you doin' here?"

"Putting you back together. How come you by this?"

He swallowed hard. "Dragoons... Wanted to know where the Missus and the children were... I couldn't tell them, no, girl... Not after what they done at _your_ house..."

I looked at him askance: "They set us free, Matt. That's what they done."

"But young Master Gabriel - Master Thomas...?"

"Better to have no Masters. No more," I said.

He winced as I dabbed on some rum, and began to dress his wound. "I didn't know where they were, no-how. But it seems to me that's mighty disloyal of you."

"Disloyal? Who to?" I asked. As I tightened the linen, drawing it over his shoulder, I wondered what an overseer could teach me of loyalty. Mrs. Selton was soft with her house-slaves, but with the fieldhands it was another matter, especially in her husband's time. A slave who, at his Master's bidding, has ordered the lash and the brand on his brethren, nay on his sisters also, may preach loyalty to me till the sky fall, and I will not heed...

"Disloyal to your father, that's who."

"He never called me 'daughter'."

"But everybody _knows_ you're his. You've that same mule-stubborn streak, that's for sure! What those Dragoons done to you to make you turn so contrary?"

"They been kind. They're my family now."

After reporting to the Lord General, his face still streaked with smoke and his uniform dusty from the road, Colonel Tavingon joined Poll, Sandy and myself by the fire in the hospital kitchen. We were all feeling the chill of winter now, but it was made bearable by the companionship, in a way which is hard to describe. Poll ladled out some grits and hot milk from the great iron pot, and we warmed ourselves and ate together. But the Colonel was silent, and gloomy.

"How are the wounded slaves?" he asked flatly.

"The young lad may lose an arm," Sandy answered.

"For that I am truly sorry... It should not have been necessary. The old man?"

I shrugged. "Fat enough to suffer no great hurt. Where's Caleb?"

The Colonel sighed. "God knows- We were betrayed."

"What?" Sandy cried in disbelief.

"First, Caleb vanished. Then, when we reached Selton Hall, those 'little white birds' of yours, Augusta, had flown the coop. We searched the house thoroughly ere we set torches - the house-slaves refused to say where the family was, hence... - And then, with quite extraordinary timing, the 'Ghost' and a handful of his militia appeared, to amuse us just after we'd fired the house..."

"So either Caleb went on ahead and warned... Or if he were captured...?" I pondered aloud.

"Oh, I know _who_ the traitor is... The _how_ may be interesting to discover, but I think we can turn it to our advantage."

"How so?" I asked.

"Much as I wish I'd proof to hang him, 'tis more useful to let him think he is no more suspected than before. I may lead him a merry dance, and still see him dance on air alongside Benjamin Martin- For he _will_ hang... Better men have worn a Tappan tippet ere now!"

"_Tyburn_," Sandy corrected his slang.

"No, _Tappan_," insisted the younger man, his face stone-grim. "'Tis the newest fashion: you wear it with _uniform_."6

_TO BE CONTINUED_

**Next Chapter:** A woman's vengeance...

**Notes:**

1. There was a smallpox outbreak in Camden in October 1780.

2. Augusta's account of the rudimentary efforts at hospital hygiene is accurate. Sadly, these were undermined by the difficulty of keeping the hospitals clean once they had been set up, the practice of patients sleeping more than one to a mattress unless critically ill, and the tendency of surgeons to use fingers, not clean instruments between patients c., and lack of sterilisation, antiseptics c. There were also no anaesthetics and no transfusions, so shock killed a lot of patients. Supplies were also often short. More troops on both sides died of disease than in battle

3. A "tobyman" is a bandit or robber, 'toby' being cant for 'road'. A 'high tobyman' is a highwayman, a 'low tobyman' a footpad. Izzy's kitten thus has a black mask-effect marking (a tribute to a cat I know and love!)

4. The 'new brig' Sandy refers to is the North Bridge in Edinburgh which connected the burgeoning New Town with the Old.

5. "A shameful death": Will's father, as a suicide, could not be buried in consecrated ground. Had he been of lower social status, rather than a 'distressed gentleman', he might even have been buried at the crossroads with a stake through him. In 18C, suicide was a crime, and survivors of attempts could actually be prosecuted.

6. A 'Tyburn tippet' was a slang phrase for a noose, Tyburn being the site of public executions in London. Will plays with words re: a 'Tappan tippet', Tappan, NY, being the place where his friend John André was hanged.


	9. Wherein I Buy Green Ribbons, & Miss Feat...

**9: Wherein I Buy Green Ribbons Miss Featherstone Renews an Old Acquaintance.**

See the Furies arise!

John Dryden, _Alexander's Feast_, V (1697)

'Twas but a few days afterwards that the Lord General summoned me to speak with him in person. Now this was a mighty honour for me, and indeed some cause for fear, given that 'twas common knowledge he had scant love for our Colonel.

Well I remember now the painted, panelled room, with its elegant furniture, and above the fireplace a portrait of a graceful, gentle young woman. Lord Cornwallis had brought it with him from England: a likeness of his beloved lady, Jemima, whose death he still mourned.

Yet grace was lacking in our converse. He sat, stern and grave, behind his desk, flanked by Lord Rawdon and General O'Hara.

"Like caryatids!" muttered the Colonel as he led me in - though I did not then know what a caryatid was. He stood beside me, tall and straight-backed, as I faced His Lordship.

"So," said His Lordship (by whom I mean Cornwallis: strangely, I could never regard Lord Rawdon with the same dignity, partly for his youth, partly for his coltish lanky appearance, into which he did not seem as yet to have grown comfortable). "So, Miss Martin" - and here I winced - "you seek to be of use to your regiment in securing your father's capture?"

"I do, my Lord," I answered, reverting to my old habit of lowering my eyes.

He turned to the Colonel: "Do _you_ have any ideas _how_ she might aid us further, Tavington? Or is this another of your polish'd schemes to get more of your men killed or captured, and leave me looking like a fool?"

"My Lord, I - I think you should let Miss Augusta say her say," he faltered. He looked distinctly uncomfortable - a look I have seen on slaves brought before an overseer.

"Well then?"

I swallowed, and steeled myself: "My Lord, some of the prisoners you exchanged for the scarecrows" - now there was my turn to discomfit him, as disingenuously as I could - "were from the township of Pembroke. 'Twould be little trouble for me to slip in to the market, and find out what I can there. There are folk there that know me, but know not where I am now."

The Colonel darted a worried glance: "The risks -"

"With respect, sir, are less than you fear. Caleb's not returned yet, and 'twould be rash to send soldiers looking for him. If he's dead, or if he's fled and hid, 'twill be other slaves who'll know for sure. And 'twill be them and the store-keepers who'll know about the supplies for Martin and his militia," I answered.

There was silence. The Colonel watched me anxiously, hands clasped behind his back, and ill at ease.

O'Hara raised his eyebrows and looked down his nose at me: "And how can we be sure you'll not flee to the enemy, Miss Martin? This 'Ghost' is, after all, your _father_."

"If I may be so bold, General: you and I are bastards both, sir, but your father treated you as if you were lawful-born. Mine did not; nay, he could not, in law, my mother being his slave. He was no father to me, sir, but a master. And I have my freedom now, and could have fled long since, had I desired so. My loyalty is to those who gave me that freedom, whom he is sworn to kill."

The Lord General leaned forward. "And what reward do you seek for this intelligence?"

I shook my head. "Seeing Benjamin Martin on the gallows tree. That will requite."

And so 'twas next morning that I put on my oldest jacket and quilted petticoat, and bound my hair up in a kerchief, the way slavewomen do. And I set out on the road to Pembroke on a quick-footed mule. I carried nothing that could incriminate me if captured. As I approached the township, I took a circling kind of route around it, so that the road by which I entered would not discover from whence I had come.

The township of Pembroke was a single street, flanking the white-painted meeting house, the pulpit of which had so often thundered to the sermons of the Rebel Mr. Oliver. That day 'twas bustling with market people, and folk at the tavern.

I did not look conspicuous: with a basket on my arm, I could have been any house-slave come to market. I watched, I listened, I learned much...

A small group of men were reading some notices which had been pinned up. One was a notification of the reward for the arrest of 'the Ghost'. Another was a series of figures illustrating musket drill for militia. The woodblock had been over-inked, with the result that the figures appeared to have black faces.

I overheard a man say of it: "Funniest thing you ever did see, sirs - this black buck he was standin' lookin' at this here sign, not readin' a word of it, jes' lookin' at these here black faces an' these here guns, and Dan - you know Danny Scott- he come up to him an' say 'twas a message from Gen'l Washington hisself, that any nigra that fought for more nor a year would be a free man! An' he believed it!" And they laughed...

Dan Scott... Yes, I remembered him: lank hair and face like a boiled ham.

I spoke to some of the slaves who were tending their masters' horses, and asked if they had heard aught of Caleb: "He was one of Ben Martin's men, and taken by the British. I do hear that he's made a run. Maybe joined my Master."

One old man shook his head and spat a quid of tobacco on the ground. "Ain't what I heard, girl."

"What did you hear, grandpa?"

"Martin's men done took a man over by Selton Hall. Never heard his name, but that he was a runaway and a spy."

"And what did they do?" I asked, trying to hide my alarm.

"What d'you think?" said the old man. "Ain't no use, whatever we try to do, whichever ways we turn. I's jes' glad I'm too old to worry much..." He forced a grin, showing missing teeth: "Soon the Lord set me free again."

Again? Yes... For he bore patterns of scars on his cheeks that I had seen betimes on the faces of men who were Africa-born, the badges of their tribes.

And I wondered what terrible fate had befallen Caleb, and how I should tell Deb...

I called in at the main store, Peter Howard's. Now I hoped to gain much news there, for he was an old friend of the Master's, and had served with him in the last war. He had a wooden leg and a deaf ear, but as I recall he was choosy in so far as which ear he was deaf in, and how bad was the affliction. His daughter had been paid court to by the Young Master, Mr. Gabriel, since he 'listed with the Rebels.

Miss Anne was a pretty enough creature, I suppose, with dark hair and blue eyes, but rather stupid. From girlhood she had heard her father and the parson talk naught save politicks, and was given to parrot their opinions publicly, as if they were her own original thoughts. It was not seemly, and the fact some folks listened to her as if she were some wondrous prodigy had bred in her an arrogance that sat ill with her habit of grinning like a fool at anything remotely funny, especially when spoken by the Young Master.

She was in the shop that day, with the linens and drapery, and so I pretended to be interested in making a small purchase.

"An' it please, Missy Howard, I've come to buy some ribbons," I asked, keeping my eyes down as I had been trained to do.

"And how much would your mistress like?" she said.

"Two yard, miss. But 'tis for me myself, since Mistress I have none."

"And of what colour?"

"Green, please, miss."

She peered at me: "Why, ain't it Benjamin Martin's yellow girl?".

I bobbed. "Why yes'm, 'tis I."

"I've not seen you hereabouts since the redcoats burned you out!"

"I been workin' for a travellin' 'pothecary, miss," I answered meekly (well, 'twas almost true).

"But of course you'll be going back to Colonel Martin?"

"Of course, miss," I lied. "D'you know where I might find him, miss, to get word to him? I jes' know he'll be worried 'bout me!"

She hesitated. "Well, with most of the menfolk being out-liers, I ain't too sure of it. But they come into town to get supplies, so I'll let him know then."

"Thank 'e, miss."

She searched around in the small wooden drawers. "Green, you say? Why, are you forsaken by a lover?"

"No, miss. I ain't even got no lover." Indeed, 'twould have been presumption, vain presumption even to think otherwise.

She found the ribbon: green silk, an inch wide... Legion green. I would make a breast-knot of it, or a cockade for the cocked hat I had taken to wearing about camp in winter, as Poll did.

"As to your Master, why, there's two of his people lying low hereabouts: and I'd say one of them needs your help! You know Lewis's Farm?"

"Yes'm."

"Mr. Lewis fled up country three months past, but two of Colonel Martin's men are hiding out there. One of them came in yesterday for some food - a Mr. Rawlins, or something. He said the other - Fielding - is wounded sore. He got burned, night afore last, by breaking of an oil-lamp when they got drunk. Is your Ma not a skilled herb-woman?"

"Yes'm, and I likewise, so they say."

"Maybe you should go see... If I filled your basket with some provisions, would you take it...?"

"Yes'm - And you say there's a Mr. _Rawlins_?"

"Or Rollins, or suchlike."

"Thank you, Missy Howard. I'll sure be glad to help!"

She skipped through to the back of the shop. I heard her speaking loudly with her father, who hobbled out with her.

"Hmm..." he said, eyeing me up and down. "Well, you'll be needing these..."

And he brought out bread and cheese, and some salted meat, while Anne sorted some soft linen and raw cotton-wool, for dressings, and stronger stuff for bandages. When I asked how much all this would cost, Mr. Howard pretended not to hear.

"Father!" Anne scolded.

"Eh, well - As it's for Colonel Martin's men, there's no charge! Fine man that he is!"

"Thank 'e, sir, that's mighty kind, sir. I won't forget that, sir."

And indeed I would not...

"What news?" The Colonel inquired, helping me dismount on my return to camp. The basket on my arm was heavy, and Howard had stuffed those on my mule with provisions also. Josh unloaded those, since they could be better used in camp, and I needed only a few pieces in my basket to dupe the enemy.

"Much, sir," I answered.

He led me into his tent, where Captain Bordon was waiting.

"Now tell us everything!"

"The Master gets his supplies from Pembroke. The folks there know more than they'd tell me. Seems like half the men of the village are out-liers, maybe with him. Also, there's a couple of his men hiding out at Lewis's Farm, about eight miles distance. One of 'em's sick - got burnt badly. The other... I fancy I heard his name was something like Rawlins, or Rollins. I guess Poll would like to know that, sir."

Bordon looked from me to the Colonel. We were both smiling thinly, which I fancy unsettled him.

"And Caleb?"

"I think he's dead, sir. I wouldn't like to venture how, but I fear the worst. If they made him talk first, sir..."

He shook his head. "I suspect not. I doubt Martin's men were close to Selton Hall by chance. Bordon?"

Bordon drew a letter from the breast of his uniform, and showed it me. It made no sense, comprising as it did of numbers and a few scattered words in a bold, cursive hand.

"What is it, sir? Cipher?"

The Colonel nodded. "Captain Tarleton's foraging party shot a fellow on the outskirts of camp last night - some low-tobyman, he thought. But this was in his pocket. The cipher's a new one, but the hand, I'm assured, is Colonel Burwell's. And 'twas meant for someone in this camp - whom, I have no solid proof, although... - Augusta, setting aside his ill manners - what do you know of James Wilkins? Of his politicks?"

"He spoke up in the Assembly in King's cause, at the start o' the war. But 'twixt then and the army's coming, he said nary a word. And I never heard tell of anyone laying hand on him nor on his property in those times, either. Not like so many of our friends. At best, I'd say he's a fair-weather friend; at worst..."

"Thank you... Most interesting... Captain Bordon?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Tell _Wilkins_ to saddle up: I want him to see this... Bring a dozen men, just in case there's trouble; and some rope, eh? And Miss Featherstone's to ride with us. Lewis's Farm... - Augusta!"

"Sir?"

"Well done, and bravely done. I don't think we should waste any time..."

We reached the abandoned farm by late afternoon. The Dragoons dismounted some yards off, under the trees, tethering their horses, and approached the rear of the house stealthily on foot. I brought my mule up the main path to the farmhouse. "Mr. Rollins! Mr. Fielding!"

I saw a face at the window. A gnarled face, more like a beast than a man, under cropped, filthy yellow hair. I thought of the engravings of bizarre animals which I had seen in the Master's magazines: dog-faced apes,1 and crocodiles. I approached the door, grateful that my friends were close at hand should I need them.

There was no need to knock.

"We-ell... A woman! Ain't that a nice surprise? Come in, won't 'e?"

I shivered involuntarily, and hoped he would think it was with cold. "Missy Howard told me your friend Mr. Fielding was wounded. I come to tend him."

He cackled. "Well to be sure... An' maybe me, too, eh?"

"You don't look sick to me, sir."

He laughed menacingly: "But I got an itch I figure you can do somethin' for, missy..."

He reached out to me: I stepped back, swerving to avoid him. "I'm Colonel Martin's, sir. I don't think he'd like you to touch me."

"Well, I'm sure he'd not mind me taking a loan o' his property, bein' as he's my commandin' officer..."

"Sir, I am here to tend Mr. Fielding!" I protested, for I could hear him crying out in the next room: cries which drowned out the sound of the back door squeaking open...

Rollins moved his hands to the fall-front of his breeches, laughing all the while.

I drew my pocket-pistol.

"So the house-nigger likes to play rough, eh?"

Then I noticed his expression suddenly change as he became aware of Miles Bordon's sabre-point pressing against his spine.

"That's enough from you, you dog!" Bordon said. "You're our prisoner. The house is surrounded, and you cannot escape. Now where's this sick friend of yours?"

Through the window, I watched the Colonel walking in the field with Wilkins. Doubtless he was trying to draw him out further, while viewing the remains of last season's tobacco crop. He loved the countryside, and I wondered if he would sit up at night making sketches of the leaves as he sometimes did, if he found something that he liked.

Poll was waiting in the stables, with a couple of the enlisted men. Two more had Rollins under guard in the next room.

The burnt man, Fielding, was lying on the table, bloody all over. Bordon kept asking him questions - mostly the same question, over and over. Where was the Ghost? But he was stupefied by his wounds and the drink with which Rollins had been plying him to deaden the pain.

"Is there nothing you can give him to revive him, Augusta?" Bordon asked me.

"I think he's too far gone, sir."

He tried to raise Fielding's head. The man screamed loud and long - and fell back dead. He looked perplexed. "Hm... I don't think the Colonel will be very pleased, do you?"

"As Lockhart says, we can't save 'em all," I said. "'Sides, he's a Rebel. And there's still the _other_ one..."

But Fielding's scream had summoned the Colonel and Wilkins back to the house.

"Well?" the Colonel sighed wearily.

Bordon looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, sir: he died."2

The Colonel casually tipped up the table, so that the corpse slid off on to the floor. (I noted Wilkins' stunned expression.)

"Bring me the other one," he snapped.

And so Rollins was dragged in by his guards, spitting and swearing.

"This man's a Rebel and a thief," Bordon said, as one of the troopers handed him a bag of loot. He tipped out the contents on to the table. A thief and a rapist, I thought, for my eyes lighted upon a string of coloured beads among the glimmer of coins, table silver, and jewellery doubtless looted from Loyalist homes. I had last seen that cheap glass necklace at Middleton Place, about the throat of a pretty young girl - who had drowned agonisingly in her own blood, in Poll's arms.3

I watched the Colonel's face, the movement of his eyes. For a moment their gaze, otherwise impassive, flickered with light, then dimmed again to an inscrutable smoke-grey. He too had recognised the beads.

"I'm not a thief - I'm a Patriot!" Rollins protested.

"'Never was patriot yet, but was a fool'," Bordon muttered quietly, quoting Dryden. I nodded in agreement.

"Ah." The Colonel smiled and browsed through the plunder. He fingered the coloured beads with particular care, then held up a gold coin. "I wonder how 'patriotic' you'd be if I offered you the chance to walk out of here alive and to triple all of this? And all you have to do is tell me where I can find Benjamin Martin and his rabble..."

His voice was cool, his eyes wide: I knew that he would keep his word. He would let Rollins leave the house alive, and shoot him down ere he had gone two paces beyond the threshold. It was simply a matter of which of us would kill him.

And what is more, I think Rollins knew it, too, for he cackled, more grotesque than ever with his crocodile-like teeth set in a malevolent grin. Bordon smiled and nodded, anticipating co-operation. The Colonel leaned forward, anxious to hear... only to receive a mouthful of tobacco-stained spit full in his face.

Immediately, Bordon twisted Rollins' arm behind his back, and rammed his head down, hard, against the table-top.

"Do your worst!" Rollins sneered.

"- I always do," the Colonel replied, drying his face with his handkerchief, with greater semblance of calm than any man might be expected to muster in such a circumstance. "- It's _Ezekiel_ Rollins, isn't it?"

"- An' if it is?"

The Colonel turned towards me with an oddly serene smile: "I think it is time Mr. Rollins became reacquainted with his old friend, don't you? Go fetch her, Augusta!"

"Yes, sir!"

While Bordon tied Rollins' wrists, I ran to the stables, to find Poll. Her face was wax-pale against the darkness of her hair, and she trembled. "Is it him?" she asked in a whisper.

"He has Sal's beads."

She smiled, and as I took her hand, I felt it grow steady... We entered the house together, and waited with the door ajar, that we could see in, but not be seen.

"Where were you on 7th October, Mr. Rollins?" the Colonel asked quietly, pacing the floor in his usual fashion, hands clasped behind him.

"7th October?"

"Don't tell me you've forgotten so soon? Your hour of triumph, was it not?"

The man cackled. "You talkin' 'bout ol' Ferguson!" He laughed again. "Funniest thing I ever seed, the way he flew off that white horse o' his! Bastard only got what was comin' to him!"

The Colonel's eyes narrowed. "He honoured me with his friendship."

"- An' when Colonel Martin lays hands on you, you'll think he was lucky!" Rollins retorted. "He'll piss on you jes' like I did on the Scotchman..."

"Such charming manners you people have!" the Colonel retorted sarcastically. He glanced over to the doorway, and beckoned to us. "Come in, ladies! Miss Featherstone - this is Mr. Rollins. Though I believe you are already acquaint."

Poll stared at the prisoner: "You goddamn stinking son of a bitch..."

"Miss Featherstone, is this the leader of the men who insulted4 you?" asked the Colonel.

"It is."

"If it ain't the Scotchman's whore!" Rollins - insolent as the devil, for all he was tied - crowed again. "Thankless bitch- Fucks a redcoat cripple, an' turns her nose up at a _real_ man!"

The Colonel's steel-cold restraint finally snapped, and his fist smashed into the prisoner's face.

Rollins snarled, at bay, bleeding lips drawn back like a beast's, bleeding nostrils flaring.

Captain Bordon held out the glass beads in his hands. "Polly, my dear, do you recognise this necklace?" he asked gently.

She nodded. "Yes, sir. 'Twas my cousin Sarah's. Major Ferguson bought it for her. _This_ varmin" - she pointed to the prisoner - "stole it from her corpse."

"'Twas my due. I shot her."

"So you murder women as well as rape them, eh- Wilkins!" the Colonel ordered. "Tie the prisoner, hand and foot, to the legs of the table."

"Sir?"

"Do it. Now."

Wilkins blanched, but he obeyed, overpowering the spitting and squirming Rollins. He retied him so that he lay spread-eagled on his back on the table - still wet with Fielding's blood (indeed, he had to step over the corpse so to do).

"Mr. Rollins, since you seem so desirous of female company, I shall leave you alone with the young ladies. - Augusta, Polly, we shall be waiting for you, with the horses. I trust you will get the information we need from Mr. Rollins," said the Colonel grimly. "And even if not, I hope you find your duty a pleasure."

Bordon and Wilkins followed him out, and closed the cabin door behind them.

Mostly I asked the questions, and let Poll use the knife, for 'twas she who had been wronged by him. He told us little of value - his brain was addled by years of rot-gut liquor - but by the time we were done, he was screaming for mercy.

"You're a-seekin' hot water beneath cold ice," said I. "I'm Ben Martin's daughter, and as merciful as he..."

Then I slit his throat, just like you do with a hog. Just like my mother does with a chicken, when casting of her spells and curses.

I do not regret it. My hands have healed far more than they have purposely slain, and it would seem that all the death that I had drawn out of the sick and wounded thus far sought its own release. Besides, it _was_, I think, an act of mercy to kill him. The parts of his body Poll had removed were ones he would assuredly have missed...

The soldiers set torches to the house when we left, that none would know what had befallen there. Not that we felt any shame for it, but to cleanse the place of the stink of Rollins' evil. Polly cried herself to sleep beside me in the tent that night. But I think she slept sounder than she had since October. And the glass beads were around her neck.

Christmas-tide came and went, and most of us were still freezing in our tents. Fuel was short, and so the hospital houses were given priority for it. This also meant that we who worked there tended to keep close to the kitchen fires, like cats in winter. I did not tell Deborah the rumours of Caleb's likely fate. Since he had not been found, alive or dead, it seemed to me cruel to impart a story which, however much I was inclined to believe it, might yet prove false. She was a kindly woman, and I had no desire to inflict another blow.

George Hanger was slowly recovering. His fevers had hindered the healing of his wound, but he seemed to be growing stronger, and was taking more of an interest in life again. Propped up on his pillows, he was still painfully gaunt but had at least lost his alarming jaundiced hue. Sandy and I did not tell the Colonel, but we allowed him to play cards (though not for money) with his friends when they visited him, as it seemed to cheer him. Skip, his servant, was not permitted to bring the monkeys or the parrot, but reported regularly on their condition (noisy, lewd and a nuisance, as ever - much like Hanger's human friends).

"I have no intention yet of marching through the Pearly Gates to a fanfare of strumpets!" he yawned.

"I should have thought you would prefer warmer climes, sir," I answered. "As would the strumpets."

"But according to Dante, Miss Augusta, the worst parts of hell are the coldest."

"Then the strumpets will keep you warm," I countered.

The senior officers were invited to dine and drink in headquarters with the General. I pitied the Colonel, imagining him as elegantly uniformed and, behind his aloofness, ill-at-ease, as he was ever on such occasions. We were mightily surprised to see him return to us in the hospital kitchen with an expression of quietly self-assured serenity. 'Twas the nearest I had ever seen him approach happiness, certainly since King's Mountain, and perhaps since the beginning of our acquaintance.

"Weel," Sandy asked, "you look like that cat that ate the cream! Or had the 'Ghost' handed to him on a plate!"

"Better than that, much better, old friend."

"A promotion?" I inquired, mixing herbs for a poultice in a pestle and mortar.

Almost playfully, the Colonel flicked a smudge of the mixture off my nose.

"Sir!" I exclaimed reprovingly. But I think he knew I scolded only in jest.

He smiled. "His Lordship's made a promise, and I will hold him to it. If I capture the elusive Ben Martin, I may expect a land-grant when the war's over. Something in the Ohio Valley, I hope."

"That's splendid news!" Sandy beamed. "I aye thought he'd see your worth in the end!"

"- But it depends on your capturing the Master?" I said, anxiously. Ever since I had learned that my father had vowed to kill the Colonel, after my mother's curse upon him, I longed and feared at the same time that they would meet again.

"Preferably killing him," he answered. "Sooner or later, he will o'er-reach himself and make a mistake. Now he's afraid. There are rumours abroad, so I'm given to understand, that we have the names and addresses of all his men."5

"Well - we know _some_," I said.

"But rumours grow arms and legs and run wild... If he's affrighted, 'tis to our advantage. Also, His Lordship has given me permission to employ whatever measures the circumstances require. He takes no responsibility, and I am free of the chain of command."

Sandy cocked an eyebrow. "Is that _wise_, William?"

"- The sooner we finish this business, the sooner _you_ get home to Byres' Close, _I_ get my farm, and Augusta... What _are_ you going to do with yourself, Augusta?"

"I don't really know, sir," I shrugged. "Work in a 'pothecary's shop. Or teach school. Captain Bordon says he wants to rebuild his school after the war."

I dared not hope for more. Already my life was enriched beyond anything I had imagined when I had lit candles and prayed and plotted in the attic at Fresh Water. My pride, my fear of living over my mother's life as a thing of convenience while a powdered and primped white wife and white children had all the comfort - my fear of supping on wormwood and gall under the same roof as milk-and-honey - held me back from admitting the thought which now began to rise in my mind. 'Twas the thought that a life parted from our brave, dear friend the Colonel would seem strangely empty to me. Was this what Hanger had meant, when he teased me about being in love? I realised with an involuntary shiver that, had my spying mission gone wrong, I would have willingly died, less for my liberty and a distant King than to shield William Tavington from my father's vengeance. And already I had killed for him...

_TO BE CONTINUED_

**Next Chapter:** Augusta fights to save a wounded woman, and the Colonel attempts to call Wilkins' bluff - with deadly consequences.

**Notes:**

1. A "dog-faced ape" is an old name for a baboon. There is a definite resemblance to Rollins.

2. I've taken some of the dialogue from Rollins' interrogation directly from the deleted scene on the DVD, so I must thank Mr. Rodat for that. Fielding's name comes from an earlier draft of his script.

3. Sal's glass beads were taken from her neck by a Rebel at King's Mountain, but their subsequent fate is uncertain.

4. "insulted" was a euphemism for 'raped'.

5. Rev. Oliver's claim in the film that the army knew the details of all of Martin's men does not seem substantiated. Judging by the deleted scene, Rollins is unlikely to have talked - and it's also unlikely he would have known, let alone remembered, everyone's addresses in the first place. Besides, if the necessary information had been forthcoming from him, the debacle at Pembroke would not have happened. This raises the question as to _whose_ men subsequently attacked John Billings' house - a raid which far more closely resembled the tactics of militia of either side than of uniformed troops, and which we did not see taking place.


	10. Fire & Sword

**10: Fire and Sword.**

Chaos Umpire sits,  
And by decision more imbroils the fray  
By which he Reigns: next him high Arbiter  
Chance governs all.

John Milton, _Paradise Lost_, II (1667)

Life in camp was lively over Christmas and New Year, though not even the officers could be said to have feasted lavishly, and the weather was cold and wet. The men and women alike tended to overindulge in drink and debauch. At the hospital, we had the usual run of drunken brawls and liquor-poisoning to attend, and the pills of white mercury.

And still we heard the fiddling, and them singing about it: "If she'd but told me when she disordered me..." The same song sung alike by English, Scots, Irish and Americans to different tunes: _Young Soldier Cut Down in his Prime_, _Cork City_ c:

"There on the corner two flash-girls stood talking,  
And one to the other did whisper and say:  
'There goes the young man whose moneys we squandered,  
And now for his sins, his poor body must pay...'

"Six jolly soldiers to carry my coffin,  
Six pretty fair maids to bear me my pall,  
And let each of these fair maids take a bunch of red roses,  
That when we pass by, folk should not know the smell..."

I minded the smell from the funeral of old Harry Martin the sea-captain. With luck they'd die sooner by a bullet or blade than raving and rotted like the Master's cousin...

Hanger was slowly getting better from his wound and fever, able to drag himself around on crutches, but no nearer to getting back on a horse. The Colonel relied increasingly on Bordon and on young Tarleton, while keeping Wilkins under close scrutiny.

His Lordship's seasonal spirit of largesse, which had given Colonel Tavington the prospect of a land-grant, meant that Sandy got the promotion for which he had ceased to hope: "Physician! Not surgeon! Two more shillings a day, and the name of 'Doctor' again! By God, I take back everything I've said agin' him! There's just one trouble with it!"

"What's that?" I asked.

"It means I'm no longer to ride with the regiment. My place is here at Camden, while Ned Smith's made up to full surgeon."

"So- You're making a good hospital here, Sandy! You're saving lives -"

He sighed: "But if the regiment is moved on, I'll not be coming with you. I'll not be able to watch over you, or that young Colonel of ours. It's wrong, I suppose, but he's like a son to me - the son Tibbie and I never had - and you another daughter."

"Well," I said, "let's hope we don't move far."

"He cares for you, you ken."

"Who?"

"William. The Colonel."

I nodded. "He says I mind him of his little sister. He's a good man," I said, hurriedly tripping out the words.

He peered at me over his spectacles. "He is. And that's why I fear for you both."

"How so?"

"He's too bold at times. He takes owre many risks. If he were to meet with some mishap..."

I turned my back, and continued rolling bandages, careful lest Sandy see that the very thought set my lips a-trembling: "Then we should have to accustom ourselves to Georgie Hanger, if he's off his crutches!" I replied, forcing myself to laugh. "Ned's a good fellow, anyway."

Yet I wished that my affection for him, my love - and I was sensible of a warm, secret joy at that word's dawning in my thoughts - could be as a blessing and shield to him.

Just before Old Christmas, I rode out again as a spy, to assist the Dragoons on yet another foray in pursuit of the militia. 'Twas easy enough to follow the route of the raiding parties: the trail of burning farmsteads and barns. I recall vividly reaching one house that was blazing yet, lighting up the night with a flickering golden flame. All the livestock had been drive off, and the bloodstained bodies of a woman and a small boy lay in the yard. While the men were ordered to search the immediate area for the enemy, I tethered my mule and jumped down to see if aught could be done for the victims.

The child was dead: a freckle-faced little fellow of about six, beside him lay a toy pistol carved from wood. Perhaps they had thought it was a real one when they cut him down... He had red curls, with an even redder sword-slash through them, where his brains spilled out in a dark, sticky mass.

"Straight-bladed sword, not a sabre," said the Colonel, his face twisted with disgust as he gazed at the small corpse. "Militia. Whether what passes for ours or theirs, God only knows..." He dismounted and approached, all the while glancing cautiously about him. "Is the woman alive?"

I rolled her carefully on to her back. She groaned. The bodice of her grey-white gown was drenched with crimson: she too had been hacked down by a sword.

"How bad...?" asked Captain Bordon.

But he did not need an answer. As I unlaced the woman's stomacher, collops of flesh slid away beneath my hands.

Bordon knelt beside me, supporting her in his arms, while I used her apron to staunch her wounds. Still they bled.

I could not tell her age - somewhere 'twixt five-and-thirty and five-and-forty, for these poor to middling farm-wives get careworn from work and childbearing sooner than planters' fine ladies. Once she must have been comely enough. Now she was deathly pale, clammy with sweat. From the auburn hair bundled beneath her cap - still pinned on so neatly - and her face, I knew that she was the dead boy's mother. And so I turned her, that she would not see him when her eyes flickered open, and she cried out in agony.

"Easy now, honey," I said. "Easy..."

The Colonel passed me his water-canteen. I moistened her lips, and she began to murmur indistinctly.

"We'll take you back to Camden, madam," said the Colonel, his usual peremptory tone softening as he leaned over her. His face was as wan as hers. "Who did this?"

"Cleveland's..." she mouthed. "I said, my man's... away with the militia... He's a Patriot... But they didn't believe... Wanted horses - cattle..." Then she sobbed: "Hurts..." and tried feebly to claw my hands away as I continued to press the cloth over what was left of her breasts.

Please stop bleeding, I thought. Please...

"Damned banditti!" the Colonel cursed under his breath.

Bordon cradled her tenderly.

"What's your name, honey?" I asked, trying to make her hold on to consciousness.

"Sara... Sara Billings..."

There seemed to be no internal injury, no break in the chest wall. If only we could get her safely back to Camden, to Sandy's cautery, to soft dressings and salves... She _must_ live, even if she was a Rebel's wife...

"Be you redcoats...?"

My hope for her faded with these words. Her sight must be dimming, if she could not see our uniforms: the light from the fire was almost bright as day.

"Yes," said Miles Bordon. "We are."

"Not like I thought..." she whispered, nestling her head against his chest. "You looks a kind man... Look after my boy..."

Then she fell silent, her blue eyes wide and lips parted. Her shallow, rapid breathing slowed, then stopped. I felt for a pulse at her throat - and found none.

Bordon closed her eyes - I could have sworn there was a tear in his own - and mumbled a prayer. My fingers sticky with blood, I pushed a stray lock of auburn hair back under her cap, and closed her gown over her torn bosom, that she might lie decent-like. We laid her down as we had found her, on her side.

We wasted no time a-burying Sara Billings and her child, but hoped that some neighbour would find them in the morning, when the fire had burnt itself out, and do right by them. Although we rode hard in pursuit of the killers, they had scattered, in the way of militia. Nor would we know them on sight, for they wore no uniform. In such warfare, how can anyone be deemed innocent?

"They will pay," said the Colonel, with calm certainty.

We dragged our way back to Camden in the driving January rain: cold, wet and weary. I did not tell Poll what had happened: it would have reminded her too much of another red-haired Sarah, who had died in her arms. But I told Sandy.

"If only we could have got her back here..."

"She might still have died, lassie, even if we'd been able to cauterise the wounds. There's aye plenty o' ways to take blood _out_ of a body, but none that works to put it back _in_."

We had a few days' respite ere the Colonel planned to take another patrol up to Pembroke and to reconnoitre. Because I was known there, it was thought best that I stayed in camp. As I had told him, that whole township was a rattler's nest of treason, the women as violent of opinion as the men, maybe more so - not harmless souls like poor Mrs. Billings. Missy Anne who talked too loud and too free was one I would gladly have seen kick her pretty little cork-heeled slippers at the hanging-tree. They all gave supplies to Ben Martin's militia. Any punishment inflicted on them would be no more than they should have expected.

There was plenty to do in the hospital at this time of year, anyway. The season of putrid and bilious fevers had given way to that of the vernal or inflammatory sort, as Sandy called them: chills, coughs, and pleurisies, rheumatism and consumptions. I was busy making blistering plasters and fomentations for chests and backs, applying rubbing ointments to shivering flesh. It is fortunate that I have always been of robust constitution myself (mind, to be born into slave-quarters and grow to adulthood is near a guarantee of resilience): had I not, I would surely have fallen sick myself.

There were reports, too, that a large Rebel force was gathering north about Charlotteburg. 'Twas easy to surmise that Martin's militia would try to join up with them. On the Colonel's return we - and the bulk of the army - would probably be on the move north again, in pursuit of them. And so Smith and I began to make ready a wagon of medical supplies.

The evening before he was due to set out, the Colonel came over to Sandy's room, to take tea with us as of old. The strangely happy times of last summer - full of wit and books and pleasant converse - seemed now so distant, that I longed for them to come again. Though he was not yet four-and-thirty, he had aged more than he should have done in those few months. But then, he seemed scarce ever to rest. Still he read the melancholy verses of Young in preference to the wise and witty books he had once preferred. He seemed to me to be living on the ends of his nerves. I think that every day that Benjamin Martin remained at large seemed to him a blow to his own worth, and a threat to his future hopes for a land-grant from the Lord General.

"We shall have him soon..." he said, sighing wearily.

"My father?" I asked.

"Yes... and our other friend."

"You've proof?" said Sandy.

The Colonel smiled slyly. "I can make proof. I can draw him out... I plan another pretty challenge to his principles - to test his nerve. If he is the man I think he is, I will have my proof..."

"What do you mean?"

"A test. Nothing more..."

"Sir -" I said, looking at him most imploring: "Sir, this will not be a danger to yourself?"

"Does that matter so much to you?"

I did not know how to answer. Of course it mattered to me. But I could not tell him how much. His every smile, his every look warmed my very soul, and if any harm befell him... I found myself staring at the polished toes of his boots on the floor.

He smiled, and tilted my chin upwards, so that I had to look him in the eye, as he had done when we first met. "Augusta, your father swore to kill me before this war was over. Do you really think I'd give some damned spy the opportunity first?"

The Colonel's patrol, with Bordon and Wilkins, was gone for three days. I always worried when he was away - heaven knew why, for he could look after himself ably enough - and yet... I feared that one day I might see him carried back on a hurdle, or in a wagon... or not at all. My mother had cursed him, my father had sworn to kill him, and I- I loved him. I knew that now. I finally admitted to myself that I had loved him from the first, when he had ridden up to the old house at Fresh Water. The Angel with the Fiery Sword swooping down to destroy the enemy. My own avenging angel...

I was helping Poll and Eilidh serve soup to the children when I recognised Colonel Tavington's horse - Bayard - charging up the track through the camp as if the very Devil's hounds were at its heels. The Colonel, normally so straight-backed and elegant a horseman - sat stoop-shouldered in the saddle, giving spur like a madman. He rode all alone.

He drew rein when he saw me, and I ran towards him. His hair was unbound, damp; his coats unfastened; his shirt open down his breast. As he turned, I glimpsed blood on the white linen...

"Sir!"

"- Later, there's no time... Must report to the General... Must send out a rescue party!" he panted. There was a wild, desperate look in his eyes.

"- You're hurt!"

"A graze - I've had far worse - Don't fuss..." He pressed his hand to his left flank: the blood ran through his fingers. "Has anyone seen Wilkins? Where the hell is that man!"

And he rode on, towards the inner stockade and headquarters.

I hurried to the hospital, and warned Sandy to make ready, since the Colonel was wounded.

"Badly?"

I shrugged: "He says not, but I cannot tell!"

A little over half-an-hour later, he entered the small, dingy room in which we usually carried out operations. He was grey-faced and in a cold sweat, a handkerchief clasped to his wound, and his jacket and waistcoat draped loosely around his shoulders. He perched on the edge of the table, slipped off his coats, and, grimacing, pulled his torn shirt over his head.

"Do your worst," he said wryly. "- And a word of advice - never, ever swoon in front of the Lord General when he's in mid-harangue!"

I was caught between a laugh and a cry of concern, as he moved his handkerchief away. A rifle-ball had ripped open the length of one rib in his left side, and was lodged in the flesh against the bone.

"Lie down, sir," said Sandy.

While he probed the wound, the Colonel gritted his teeth.

Sandy mumbled to himself: "A clean break - no splintering, there's a mercy... But a bad tear... 'Twill need stitching."

"It's a flea-bite, to those who'll be coming in... I left Bordon and a few of the others... Not sure how many alive... The rescue party should fetch them... A surprise attack. Martin was close behind, but I doubt he'll have stayed, given what I left him to find..."

"_Martin_?" I asked.

"Yes - following his son. This" - he indicated his wound - "is _your brother's_ work..."

"And he?"

"Dead... A close-run thing, though! The parson tried to load faster than I, but I fired first - slew him. He passed his rifle to the boy - I'd no time to reload my pistol... The ball knocked the breath out of me. I-I fainted. I opened my eyes - I was face-down on the grass. New Jersey over again... I heard him draw nigh, to finish me... And realised I'd fallen atop my own sabre... So I rolled over and ran him through. Damn'd lucky - He'd a knife in his hand ready for God knows what -" He broke off with a gasp as Sandy deftly drew out the flattened lead ball with his fingers.

I mopped the blood with a cloth. I could surely have killed Master Gabriel myself for causing him this hurt. For I had never before seen the Colonel look as he did now: half-naked, his eyes wide and glittering, his dark brown hair falling soft and untidy around his bare shoulders. He was lean and lithe, not over-muscled: his chest and shoulders neither too broad nor too narrow; slender in the waist and hips. As fine-figured a young man as my two eyes did ever see. And my own half-brother had almost killed him...

He kept talking all the while that Sandy sewed up his wound - talking desperately to fend off an agony that was more than physical.

"We were in Pembroke last night... Wilkins... We were right... I saw it in his face... We locked all the townsfolk in the church - the grown men and women, at least - to affright them. 'Burn it,' I told him..."

"Burn what? The _town_?" asked Sandy.

"That's what he said. But I said, 'Burn the _church_'... I taunted him. I meant it _only_ for to try him... I swear it... I did not mean him to _do_ it... I only meant it for...I would have spared them... Kept them locked up overnight, but... "

I stared, realising what he was trying to tell us: "Burn the meeting-house, with people inside?"

Sandy paused in his stitching: "William, surely not ?" And he felt his brow, to see if the younger man was in a delirium. But I could tell, from his flesh beneath my own hands, that, although clearly in shock, he was not fevered.

"I thought he would falter. The test of which I told you... I thought 'twas how to break him, to prove, before all that were there... He hesitated, but then... I cannot believe I have done this!"

Sandy bowed his head. "Laddie... this is... a grievous thing."

"It was not my intent... Once he threw the torch... I _could not_ retract my order in front of the men... My authority - my reputation - would have been... I steeled myself. I told him it will be forgotten. It _must_ be forgotten... - But you should have seen the look on his face - the fear - you could almost smell it on him!"

"- Not as bad as Pembroke'll be smelling of _roast pork_!"1 Sandy observed, laying his dark surgeon's wit over his evident horror. "But all these dead - for _one_ spy- William, lad...?"

"- He believes that by sacrificing his neighbours, he's put me off the scent. But he hasn't... And I do wonder how he'll explain his part in this business to his paymasters-I can't hang him without firm proof, but at least... We've drawn him in further... harder for him to explain away..." He swallowed, and tried to smile, but there was only aching despair in his eyes and bitterness in his voice. "Strange - such notions of chivalry I had once...! What have they done to us in six years...? They called me 'The Butcher': I am now, am I not? And I thought to restore my family's honour!"

I felt the muscles in his side move with rapid breathing, as I held a compress, moistened with spirits and cold water, over his hurt.

I tried to think how to soothe him: "'Tis as I said, sir: there wasn't one of them that hadn't aided my Master and his men. What's the words? 'Collaborating with the enemy'. I'd not waste tears grieving over them."

So the Young Master's sweetheart Missy Anne was among them, and her pompous, traitorous old windbag of a father? Well, that sure explained him going after the Colonel, and wounding him so sore. The canting Parson Oliver, too, would have been lost without a congregation to thump the pulpit at. They could burn - whether in hell or Pembroke - for all I cared. The Colonel must not lose his resolve.

"That's almost irrelevant," he said. "I could still be broke for this... All I have striven for..."

"But His Lordship gave you a free hand -"

"- And after this, do you think he will own it? No, he's a gentleman - he plays by the 'rules of war'! When I told him what had happened - if I hadn't fallen over in front of him, I think he would have given me a pistol and told me to do as my father did there and then! And the worst part is, he would have been right!"

"_No_, lad!" Sandy insisted. "That's not the answer!"

"I let myself be outfoxed... by Martin, by Wilkins... I have no clear evidence on which to arrest Wilkins, and now he can 'prove' his loyalty... What can I do?"

"Aught save _that_!" said Sandy with uncharacteristic harshness, then went on more gently: "This is the pain and the shock talking. You need to rest, William: you're wore out and you're wounded."

"- And with a Rebel army on the march, I should take to my bed with a laudanum bottle?" he retorted mockingly.

In grim silence the doctor prepared to bind up his ribs. I knew what Sandy was thinking: that Pembroke was a natural conclusion to what had begun in New Jersey, when the trusting gallantry of a young soldier had led to him being left to die in a ditch by 'innocent civilians'. The butchery on King's Mountain, the hanging of another friend, the mutilation of a helpless woman - all had fuelled the unreason which had prevented the Colonel from backing down... The Rebels were reaping a whirlwind of their own devising, but 'twas one which could destroy him in its wake.

"Beggin' your pardon, Dr. Lockhart, sir - they're bringing in the other wounded!" a private cried, poking his head around the door. "Three of 'em!"

Sandy peered out through the window into the muddy street. "These look bad... Augusta, take the Colonel to his tent and finish tending him there."

The Colonel shook his head: "The fewer of the men see... It's not as if I'm an invalid..."

Sandy nodded. "My room, then."

I turned to the wounded man: "Can you stand?"

"Yes... I'm just a little light in the head..."

"Lean on me."

The Colonel covered the dressing with his right hand, while he put his left arm around my shoulders. I carried his cast-off clothes. We passed Captain Bordon as he was borne in and laid on one of the straw mattresses on the floor of the main ward (once a dining room). His eyes were closed, and his hands pressed down on a cloth about his waist...

The Colonel almost collapsed on Sandy's cot.

"You've lost a lot of blood, sir."

"I know."

"Sit up. This won't take long. Just raise up your arms..."

I began to bind his body.

"Are you sure this is necessary?"

"Whenever you move, there's a risk you'll tear your stitches, and the bone needs time to heal. It's better if we keep your side still, and supported. You should rest for a few days, keep yourself warm -"

"- There's no time!"

"You must!"

"No!" His eyes flashed green fire. "Augusta, I cannot... Not after -"

He broke off in a spasm of pain. I paused in my bandaging, so that it seemed I held him, my hands on his half-covered ribcage, and looked him in the eye.

"Sir, you're in no fit state -"

"I have no choice... We have to move out... pursue..." He flinched as, in bandaging him, my hand accidentally lighted upon the raised, ragged scar on his back.

"I'm sorry, sir!" I had not had a proper view of it before - where the ball had ripped across the flesh, driving a fragment of the left shoulder-blade into his lung... He had been lucky to survive, thanks to Sandy. But how many more scars would he have before this war was over? I thought. The very idea of him suffering further disfigurement horrified me. I had seen too much of mutilation, from weapons or from the surgeon's knife.

"Did I hurt you, sir?"

"No... It's just... Old wounds twinge... My souvenir of the Jerseys. Of treachery."

I nodded. "Sandy told me of it, sir."

"He should not have. But.. at least you know. And... 'tis a little absurd for you to keep calling me 'sir' when I'm not exactly in uniform."

"Oh?" I asked, almost anxiously. "Then, sir, what ?"

"You know my name's William. I'll even answer to 'Will', which is but half a name but, since I'm scarce half-dressed, is not unreasonable under present circumstances," he answered, his ashen face suffused with rose.

I smiled shyly. "Thank you, sir - I mean, Will. That's mighty kind of you."

"'Tis _you_ that's kind, Augusta! While _I_ am... God knows what- Not much of a knight errant now, eh...? 'The Butcher' indeed... Now tell me truly," he asked earnestly, "do _you_ think me brutal?"

"_This war_ is brutal," I said. "When it's over we'll be as we are, not as it's made us."

"True enough; very wise, in fact... But will _any_ of us be as we were _before_?"

"I hope not! I sure don't want to be what _I_ was before," I answered.

"- While I wish that I _could_ be," said he. "I've made a more thorough job of destroying my family's honour than my poor father ever did, and yet you and Sandy tell me to live..."

"You survived New Jersey!"

"Better if I'd not... At least there I fell into _someone else's_ trap - not my _own_!"

"Your men respect you. Sandy loves you like a son. And I - Well, you set me free, and that ain't something easy forgotten!"

I tied off the ends of the bandage just below his left breast. The fine skin was damp, cool - smooth, save for the sparse, soft growth of dark hair across his chest. I felt the rapid beating of his heart. My fingers lightly brushed against his nipple.

William leaned his head closer to mine, and looked deep into my eyes. His breath was warm against my face. His lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but as I steadily returned his gaze, I realised that he could not, or would not, find the words. That he was too shy, or too proud, or both. And, much as I longed to hold him in my arms and embrace him, I dared not, lest he think me forward or I hurt his injured side. He simply covered my hand with his, and squeezed it.

"I don't know where I'd be without you, Augusta!" he said, with more depth of feeling than the words themselves merited. Then, making an effort to pull himself back together: "- Would you help me put this back on, please?" - and he indicated his torn, stained shirt.

"Surely you'll have a clean one in your tent?" I queried, jolted back to the practicalities of the situation.

"No: with all the rain of late, Mrs. MacRae's not been able to get my linen dry. 'Twill do for a few more days' campaigning! It may be bloodier by the time I'm through- Nay, don't look at me so! _Other men's_ blood, I mean! ...I daresay some of _this_ is your brother's!"

"Mostly yours, I reckon," said I.

I helped him put his left arm through the sleeve without disturbing his bandages too much, but anyone could see he would not be fit for duty for some time, in body or mind.

"Sandy's right: if you rest, you'll surely feel -"

"I can't! The General's orders... Greene, Burwell, Morgan and their friends have amassed an army. Your father may be with them, too, if he still has the stomach for fighting... We move in a few hours, to cut them off. And at least in the field I've a chance to - It's all right, MacRae will find me a cravat! Now my waistcoat and jacket, if you please..."

I eased them back on, then combed the tangles from his hair. There were rippling waves through it from being braided up so tight. His ribbon was in his pocket: MacRae would queue it properly later.

"- Augusta..."

"William?"

He sighed, and shook his head. "Oh, nothing... Merely... _thank you_."

I walked with him as far as the door, and watched him walk unsteadily towards the camp, pulling his coats close about him that none might see the bloody rent in his shirt. How like him so to do...

Sandy, Deb, Poll and I treated the casualties and made them comfortable. But two bled to death, leaving only poor Miles Bordon clinging to life. He had been stabbed under the ribs, a deep wound into the liver, and had lost much blood, with some bile intermixed. From time to time, his eyes flickered open, but he could not speak from pain and weakness. He was a good, honest man: a schoolmaster, not a soldier at heart, who did not deserve to end this way... As he shivered, I tucked the blankets around him. Poll poked the fire in the hearth.

"God help his poor wife and children!" she said.

Sandy shrugged. "You can never tell with the liver. If there's no poison or inflammation, he may heal fast: otherwise, he'll die slow. Betimes they weather the inflammation and die after a fortnight. He's almost sure to jaundice... But if we keep him clean, and give him laudanum... A sorry business, this..."

"I must go now," I said, "to the Colonel, and Smith..."

"Aye," sighed Sandy. "- Augusta?"

"Yes?"

He drew me aside, and whispered: "Keep an eye on William."

I nodded. "His wound -"

"No," said Sandy. "His spirits. This business with Wilkins... Pembroke... His father slew himself for less. He mustn't do anything... reckless, just to redeem his sense of honour. Once a 'Death or Glory' boy, always..."

When I returned to the tent, I made ready my things, and mounted up into the wagon with Smith. Rob Jackson, from Fraser's, joined us. Most of the women and families were staying behind at Camden, with Rawdon and the garrisoning force, so I bade farewell to Eilidh and the children. And so we moved off, north and west-bound, for lands beyond the Broad River. The Generals rode in front, Webster leading the 33rd, McArthur leading Fraser's, the 23rd, and some Germans besides. Lively little Captain Tarleton was close by the Colonel, and the traitor Wilkins too (who had turned up about an hour after him, claiming to have been waylaid)... With good fortune, we would soon return victorious, and the latter would get his just reward.

_TO BE CONTINUED_

**Next Chapter:** Will admits his feelings for Augusta - but is time is running out?

**Notes:**

1. Roast pork smell - It puzzled me that it took Martin and his militia to look inside the ruined church before they twigged what had happened there. The place would have been smelling like a pork-barbeque. Possibly the wind was blowing in a different direction from their approach. Or they thought there'd been a village hog-roast.


	11. Of Promises Made

**11: Of Promises Made.**

They love indeede who dare not say they love.

Sir Philip Sidney, _Astrophel Stella_ (1591)

For the next few days we travelled on, as "cold and wet and weary' as the lady following the gypsy in the song.1 The rain lashed down on us, and at night, 'twas so cold that the ground, on which so many had to sleep, froze. And in the mornings, when you splashed your face with water, your hair would freeze where it was wetted.2 At Winnsboro we could at least eat, but we got little food the rest of the time.

William rode at the head of his men. I had few opportunities to speak with him, but I feared for him. His face was a waxen mask: only the flickering intensity of his eyes betrayed his pain.

"Is he all right?" asked Captain Tarleton one evening, as Smith and I made a fire.

"Who, sir?" I asked.

"The Colonel. He don't look it."

"I guess he's all right," I lied. "He just got a graze in a skirmish the other day, that's all."

"That's what I'd heard, but... Is it true what they're saying about Pembroke- All those people -"

"Ask Wilkins," said I. "He threw the first torch."

Ban's large brown eyes widened. "_Wilkins_?"

I nodded.

"I wish Hanger and Bordon were here instead."

"How so, sir?" I asked sardonically. "Major Hanger to get you into trouble with the Colonel, and Captain Bordon to get you out of it?"

"Well, if anything happens to old Tav... I'm next in line..."

"Let's hope nothing does, then," I smiled.

He sighed, shivering. "I've always been lucky, I suppose. When Lee was captured, and all... But this... Poor Hanger!"

Ned reassured him: "Hanger will get his strength back, though how much weight he'll gain on hospital rations is another matter! He's a good fellow."

Ban shrugged. "He'd better not die! He's threatened to bequeath me his monkeys and parrot!"

We were lucky if we slept more than three hours a night for the next few days. There is little splendid about an army on the march in the dead, dark depths of winter. Once-scarlet uniforms, already bleached by the Southern summer, became spattered with mud and rain. Colours flapped clammily about the ensigns' faces, or were kept furled. Horses grew weary or lame or both. We forded rain-swollen rivers and creeks, and could not get dry afterwards.

Thus chilled and hungry, we heard the grim news from the scouts: the enemy lay ahead in greater numbers than we had anticipated.

On the morning of the 16th, by the Pacolet, Ned, for once, had a tent pitched with Jackson and Hall for care of the sick.

Will came to us to have his dressing changed. He looked haggard, his hair unkempt, his torn shirt stained with sweat and blood. Because of the cold, he did not remove it, but rolled it awkwardly up his chest.

"How is your wound, sir?" I asked, mindful that in Smith's presence I could not call him by name.

"Well enough," he answered grimly.

As I removed the bandages and the wad of gauze, I saw that the flesh was bruised and swollen around the stitches. The silk had not broken yet, but had evidently been strained by these past few days on horseback.

"You'd heal faster if you rested, sir," I told him.

"We're short enough of senior officers as it is. I can hardly cry off with a mere knock on the ribs."

He rested his arm on my shoulder as I bathed the wound with rum and covered it with a cold water compress to ease the inflammation. The touch of his skin, the closeness of his body to mine, made my hand tremble a little. He needed care, he needed tenderness, not to drive himself on so relentlessly...

"The word is that Martin's militia is joining up with Burwell and Morgan. They are gone for Cherokee Ford," he said, avoiding my gaze.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Bordon always trusted Crowfeather. He's a good scout. ...But you know what this means."

"Will - sir - if we catch up with them tomorrow -"

"It's either your father or I that will not leave the field alive."

I could tell, from William's calmness, that he had every intention of fighting in the battle; that he had resigned himself to facing the man who had sworn to kill him - my father. 'Twas both a long-held resolution, and, after the calamity at Pembroke, a kind of 'trial by combat', or expiation.

"I'll put this on the fire," I said quietly, and left the tent with the stained dressing, while Ned began to bind up the Colonel's ribs again. But in so doing, I passed Lord Cornwallis, who was on his way in.

I bobbed a courtesy: "Good morning to you, my lord! I hope you're not here in your own cause!"

"- Colonel Tavington's within, is he not?"

"Yes, my lord - Surgeon Smith's just attending to his hurts."

"Good." But I liked not the ill-humoured look on his face. Sandy would have said he had "taken the dudgeon".

I paused close to the dooring, to catch what was said:

"You will be missed tomorrow, Colonel" said His Lordship, not meaning a word of it.

"_Missed_, my lord?"

"Your wound."

"It's nothing!" - and Will must have pushed Ned aside, for the latter emerged from the tent moments later, with an anxious expression.

"I don't like the sound of this..." I whispered.

"His Lordship's trying to make the Colonel sit out the action, if we fight tomorrow. He's right, of course, but..."

I nodded: "I know."

"But then he should have been made to stay at Camden! To let him all this way, and then... 'Tis not _kindly_, Augusta!"

We heard him upbraid Will for not having captured 'The Ghost' ("Thus far," as Will rightly pointed out in his own defence), and then make some threat that if he charged without orders, as he had at Camden, he could "abandon any hope of Ohio".

"Men like our Colonel don't grow on trees! He should remember that!" muttered Ned. "To tear strips off him when he's wounded..."

We stepped aside, pretending to be chatting idly as the Lord General emerged from the tent, then ducked back in.

Will's posture spoke of his dejection, his eyes of bitterness: "'Wait for my order', he says. Well, that's scant use, given we may readily assume the enemy knows by now _what_ those orders will be... I think a little surprise may be fitting, don't you, eh?"

Without assistance, he put on his waistcoat, tucking his shirt into his breeches.

"We'll catch them yet..."

I wished there was something I could do to help him, even simply to hold him in my arms. But he would not be helped. He knew his duty - and, indeed, I knew mine.

We broke camp almost immediately, and rode on. When at last we halted, towards evening, we found ourselves at Burr's Mill, a site but lately abandoned by the Rebels. Indeed, there was food left behind, which we had merely to finish cooking. Our men devoured it as eagerly as half-starved dogs tear at bones. Meanwhile, some of the Loyal militia were sent out to reconnoitre.

The fire spluttered in the freezing drizzle, and gave little heat. I poked it with a stick, and huddled closer, wrapping myself in my cloak. Such a cold night... I heard a fiddle playing in the distance. One of the Irishmen, I thought: the jaunty march of _Garryowen_3 giving way to the keening lament of _Cork City_:

"When I was on horseback wasn't I pretty?  
When I was on horseback wasn't I gay?  
Wasn't I pretty when I entered Cork City  
And met with my downfall on the 14th of May...

"Beat the drum slowly, and play the fife lowly,  
Play up the Dead March as we roll along:  
When you bring me to Tipperary,  
You'll lay me down easy,  
I am a young soldier that never done wrong..."

Tomorrow, early tomorrow, how many of them would be lying in the freezing mud, hacked to pieces, shot, or dismembered by cannon-shot? I feared for my friends, and most of all for William.

Staring into the smoke, I scarce noticed a slim, dark figure approach, and stretch out his hands.

"'Twas decent of the Rebels to leave us supper, was it not?" Will said, with a wry smile. "God knows we needed it... The men are exhausted, and the morning... will be busy for us all. I'll be glad when it's done."

"You're determined to fight, then?"

He nodded. "Of course."

"Despite what the General said?"

"The General's a damned old woman."

"Smith agrees with him. Your wound -"

"Sandy's 'embroidery' will hold out long enough, I think."

"What to do about Wilkins?"

"It's too late to act now. Afterwards... For now, we must assume the worst: that the Rebels know our orders. But tomorrow" - and he grinned - "that knowledge will be worthless... At least I've still got Tarleton. Even if he is a child."

"Please take care, William."

He hesitated. "Augusta - I want you to make me two promises."

"Yes?"

He passed his hand over his brow. "If I don't come back tomorrow - if I fall - do you promise me that you will write my mother and Izz?"

"But doesn't the Lord General usually...?"4

He smiled wryly: "Do you _really_ think I want to rely on _his_ good graces and opinion? I know you will write the truth, about everything - even Pembroke... God knows what the newspapers at home will be writing of me: half of them dance to the Rebels' tune, and revel in every defeat we suffer... I want my family to hear the truth from someone I trust."

"But I don't know them."

"They know of you. And only good, I assure you."

My head reeled. What had he been thinking of? To write of me to his family? "What mean you by this?"

"I've told them all about you: Mother, Izz, Hugh, Bob, Kate... I wanted them to know how greatly I... _esteem_ you... There are things I should have said, Augusta... Things I should have done... But you know that as well as I, if I have read you aright. We _are_ friends, are we not? Just promise me that you will write them if..."

Our hands sought each other; he lifted them, so that my hands were clasped to his breast. And he drew me towards him, so that my head leaned against his shoulder.

"I will." (But I did not wish to think of it, not here, not held thus, close to his lean body, that was so strong and yet now so unutterably weary...)

He stroked my hair. "Thank you... And the second thing is - if the worst does happen - you must go to them, in Manchester. Sandy has my papers - legal papers. There is money set aside for you in bequest - from my pay - not a great deal, but enough - to see you safe to my family."

For a moment, all I could do was stare, open-mouthed. "- No, Will - that's too much!"

"It is the least I can do, to repay you..."

Distressed, I retorted: "Repay for what? I've never lain with -"

"I know," he said gently. "You cannot be bought. And but for you, I think I should have gone quite mad after October... Madder than I have been... That is why I - _care for_ you, and that is why you must go to my family, if... You see, _there_ you cannot be a slave. No-one can pursue you. Even if your master sought you, the law of the land would protect you. So long as there's no invasion, you'll be safe... Promise me!"5

"I promise," said I, "- but I hope and pray I don't have to!"

He lifted his head: I saw a proud gleam in his eyes. "We'll see, eh- I'm not easy killed: the Rebels have been trying for nearly six years, and not quite managed it yet. Not those treacherous bastards in New Jersey, and not your wretched brother... After tomorrow, one way or another, it _will_ be different with us..."

"You trust to the God of Battles?"

"I trust to this," he smiled, patting the hilt of his sword. Then he gazed past me into the night, where distant fires glimmered through the damp air. "Strange... I wonder if your father's over there, thinking of what he's going to do if he meets me- He'll want me dead now, for sure, after Pembroke and his son..."

"Kill him for me," I said softly.

"I'll kill him on my own account, thank ye, miss!" he laughed, pressing his hand to his flank. His injured rib clearly pained him badly. "- What a splendid Spartan woman you'd have made- They would give their menfolk their shields with the words, 'With it, or on it'!"

I tried to smile: "Once a 'Death or Glory' boy, always... But Will - with that wound - try to get some rest before..."

He shook his head. "Impossible. I need the scouts' reports, as soon as they come in. But you - you'll have work a-plenty whoever wins... 'Tis _you_ who needs rest!"

He wrapped my cloak around me, protectively, and walked with me, back towards the wagon. Within, I could just discern Smith and Jackson's shadows, cleaning instruments in readiness for the morning... When I turned to bid 'goodnight' to my gallant friend - much more than friend, now, I knew - my love - he had gone.

_TO BE CONTINUED_

**Next Chapter:** "I called my father by that name but once in my life, and that day I held a pistol in my hand and vengeance in my heart..."

**Notes:**

1. In the universe of _The Patriot_, Cowpens is a rather different battle to reality, involving more British and Loyalist troops. In the real world, it was basically just the Legion and the 71st Foot, with no Generals present. What I've tried to do here is use the characters who were in the film, but at least give them the correct weather conditions c. The Loyal American and British troops were exhausted and underfed, a factor which Laurence Babits mentions in his excellent Cowpens book, _The Devil of a Whipping_, re: the battle-fatigue which seems to have kicked in.

2. Hair freezing if you got it wet: this comes from an observation made in the Second Civil War on a winter campaign in Virginia, by a young Captain from Staten Island, who went on to greater things: Rob Shaw (1837-63).

_3. Garryowen_, though it tends to be associated with Custer, thanks to movies, is an Irish march used in the army from the 1770s. Like so may pieces of traditional music, it later crossed the Atlantic with emigrants.

4. Re: Lord Cornwallis writing letters of condolence, there survives a touching letter he wrote to Rev. Dr. Alexander Webster on the death of his son from wounds after Guilford Courthouse in 1781. Cornwallis was Col. of 33rd Foot, of which Jamie Webster was Lieut. Col. Being of a similar age (Cornwallis was 42, Webster 41), they had been good friends as well as colleagues. The text of the letter is on my website: http:www.silverwhistle. Will is right to say that Augusta would be free if she went home to his family. Lord Mansfield's 1772 ruling in the case of an abandoned slave being reclaimed by his master, was that the state of slavery did not exist on English soil, and he was able to continue his life as a free man. Scotland had a similar verdict in 1778.


	12. Of the Colonel & the Master

**12: Of the Colonel the Master.**

Tonight I will lie in the parson's cow-pens,  
Tomorrow, go with the beasts to slaughter...

Trad. Gaelic lullaby from Kintail

Reveille sounded at about two in the morning, in the freezing darkness. I had half-expected that Will would come to us to have his dressing changed. Last night's words had transfigured my memory of his body's warmth in my arms when I had tended him. However difficult it was for us to express, we understood each other. I longed to hold him again, to touch his skin and the heavy fall of his hair, loosed from its queue...

But he did not call by at our wagon. He had not slept at all, collecting information from the scouts and from a captured Rebel militia officer. The whole army was on the road by three, following Rebels' muddy trail. Swimming horses across fords in the dark, while Rebel militia set fires in the undergrowth to hinder progress, we pressed on. We crossed Macedonia Creek before dawn, and marched towards the place called the Cow-pens. The MacRaes' lullaby drifted back into my mind: "with the beasts to slaughter..."

When dawn broke, past seven, two suns seemed feebly to glimmer through the clouds. Some of the more superstitious among the men took it to be an omen, but for good or ill, none might agree. In any case, all were too busy making ready for battle.1

When I did see Will, he was already on horseback, making ready to lead his men on to the field. Beneath his helmet rim, his face, clean-shaven, was pale and tense, hollow-eyed. Sheer determination alone was holding him up, tired and hurt as he was: determination that was, in part, I knew, aimed at killing my father, and at outwitting the spy in our own ranks.

As he rode nearer, our eyes met. Without a word, he drew and raised his sabre to his lips in salutation. 'Twas a pretty gesture, better fitted to some long-past age of knights-errant, of whom he had once spoken, than to these desperate times. The gesture of a knight to his lady. (Aye - some lady- I, a lanky quadroon in muddy safeguard and uniform jacket, with her braid pinned up light-infantry-style beneath a cocked hat!)

The pain and exhaustion, the mud and the rain faded from him. There was a trace of a smile on his lips, an air of excitement. He seemed again the splendid, straight-backed horseman I had first seen at Fresh Water last May: except now I looked on him not as an avenging "angel with a fiery sword", beyond my reach, but as the man I loved, and who loved me. His whole mien told me that he would leave the field of the Cow-pens with honour and glory, or not at all.

"Once a 'Death or Glory' boy..." I murmured, as the regiment rode past in array, officers, troopers, all. Captain Tarleton winked at me mischievously. I had often been cool toward him, on account of his family's business, and his escapades with Hanger, but he was a brave young man, and I think essentially good-hearted. Wilkins sneered, but I responded with a guileless smile, thinking all the while that my Colonel had the measure of him, and planned to outwit him. Ruairidh MacRae nodded to me. My family, my friends. The men I had nursed and written letters for, and trusted and cared for... I wondered how many would return.

It continually surprises me that there are civilians foolish enough to risk life and limb to go to _watch_ battles. For on most occasions, once battle is joined, it is hard to discern any of the action, through the smoke from musket and cannon fire. Here a streak of scarlet, there of blue; here a King's Colour, a regimental standard, or flag of Provincial militia; there, the Rebel militia banners and colours of their line. And always the noise, the thundering noise - and the shrieks of men and horses.

But at the Cow-pens we saw the forces engage, for the wind that cut like a sabre through us all drove the smoke from the field, and set the colours a-flutter in the damp air. We saw the mass of cavalry - our Legion - sweep down, blades gleaming in the weak winter light, as the bugle sounded the charge. My heart went with them, as I thought of Will - weary and wounded though he was - dauntlessly leading them on...

We packed scrips with dressings and bandages in readiness for the inevitable race to bring casualties off the field to the relative safety of the wagons.

Rob Jackson passed me his spy glass, but 'twas hard to be sure what was happening all over the field. Then we saw our men beginning to flee, and heard the retreat sounding above the din.

"Bastards!" swore Smith.

"Come on, then, Yankee-doodle!" Jackson called to him, snatching up his bag of dressing-clouts and brace of pistols. His blue eyes twinkled eagerly. "If we wait for this to stop, there'll be mair deid- Augusta?"

Smith protested. "But if you're killed -"

"I have my pistol!" I said. "Come on, Ned!"

Jackson mounted his horse, and pulled me up before him. "On to the field, lass, and do what you can! Let's no' wait for them to come to us!"

He tapped his horse onward with his cane.

Smith, too, mounted, taking a sabre with him, and off we rode on to the field, dodging the balls which still whizzed throught the air about us, even as our army was in flight...

I jumped down, and began to tend to some of the walking wounded, while Rob rode off to another part of the field. All the time, I kept looking, and hoping... I asked my patients if they had seen the Colonel.

"- In the thick of it, he was."

"- He didn't retreat."

"- I saw his horse go down."

At that, my heart sank. If Will had fallen - With a broken rib, stitches - If the ends of the bone were driven inward...

And so I roved over the field, seeking him - living or dead - ducking to avoid stray shots.

'Twas Bayard I recognised first. The big gelding's legs had crumpled beneath him: his eyes were open, his mouth frothed with blood, still gaping in his final scream. A wooden shaft protruded from his chest. It took me a few moments to realise that the bloody rag fixed to it was a Rebel colour...

Absent-mindedly, I patted his nose - his fur still warm. How he had whinnied gently when the Colonel and I hand-fed him apples last summer: the soft muzzle nuzzling my palm...

So much for the horse... But where was the rider?

Bent double, my hat flying off, hurrying over the churned-up ground, I turned over the body of a fallen Dragoon... Who it was, I knew not, for half his face was shot away, the other half covered in blood. But the uniform was not that of an officer.

Then I saw the winter sunlight catch on the bloodstained blade of an Indian axe, just as once I had seen its silvery gleam in the depths of an old chest in the plantation house... Yea, 'twas the Master's axe, with his name scribed upon it, from the last war. He was surely dead, for he would not have parted from it otherwise. But where was his corpse, and where the Colonel? If he were dead, than at least I had some hope of finding Will alive.

I picked up the axe, and stuck it in my belt. I might give it to Crowfeather, in vengeance for his people, or to Will.

Some of the Rebel militia had thrown down their weapons and were now merely brandishing their colours and cheering at the rout of our army... A pack of treacherous dogs baying at the sky... One man standing before me was so deep-slashed across the back, slashed across the legs that he could barely stay upright, cheering and jeering: a half-dead scarecrow.

And then I caught sight of Will Tavington.

He lay on his side, a musket with bloody fixed bayonet close by him. I flung myself on my knees next to him. He was choking, blood dribbling over his chin, eyes wild in a grey face damp with sweat and smudged with smoke.

"Oh, honey!" I cried, fearing the worst as I raised his head gently. He had been struck in the mouth, his lips bruised and swelling. He coughed up a couple of dislodged teeth: whence all the blood, I hoped. But I could not be sure that he did not also have some grievous internal hurt.

I ran my hands over his body. His woollen waistcoat was ripped, soggy. A bayonet had entered his right flank, about the lower ribs, and torn its way out. Another gash ran across his right breast up to the shoulder, following the diagonal of his swordbelt. My fingers worked quickly to unfasten the buckle. As I loosened his cravat and opened his shirt to ease his breathing, I found a deep stab-wound, welling dark blood, high in his chest, near the right shoulder. I pressed clouts over it. Another wound, too, in his left arm...

"Get away from him!" came a voice behind me. "He's mine to settle with!"

As I glanced up, the scarecrow's hand seized my hair, forcing my head backwards, and I felt the edge of a bayonet blade pricking across my throat. 'Twas not cold steel, but still warm and wet with blood: Will's blood, I was sure. For I knew the voice.

"Master!"

"- Augusta!" Benjamin Martin flung me roughly to the ground beside my wounded love. "- So he's not dead!"

"Not yet," I answered sharply, crawling closer to Will to protect him.

He cackled, and shifted the bayonet between his hands. "Good... - Now give me my axe!"

Shielding Will with my own body, I slipped my hand through the pocket-hole of my safeguard, until I felt my pistol in my grasp...

I forced a smile: "Kill me first - _Father_!"

For a moment he recoiled. In seven-and-twenty years we had never owned each other by the names of our kinship. His gore-bespattered face contorted as he struggled to make answer: "- But he killed your _brothers_!"

"_Brothers_- Who called me 'yaller girl'? 'House-nigger'?"

"- He burned Fresh Water! Pembroke!"

"- Old Drayton sold your Daddy his own chile for you to fuck: who'd you have sold _yours_ to? Jim Wilkins? The Parson? Old Pete Howard?" I laughed provokingly. "Bet _he_ sure rendered down like a lard-hog!"

As I hoped, the Master began to shake, his grip on the blade less firm, his eyes less fixed on what I was doing (drawing my pistol).

In that oddly gentle voice that I had learned long ago to associate with the worst of his rage, he said: "I was right... when I told Lizzie... you'd end as a whore... The Butcher's whore..."

And he lunged.

I fired into him. "- He set me _free_!"

The Master was so bloodied over that I did not see where the ball struck, but he sank on to his knees, and fell backward without word more.

Will moaned. I kissed him on the brow. He seemed to recognise me at last, his hand feebly reaching up to touch my face.

"Honey... It's all right," I said tenderly. "You're going to be all right, my love..."

I did what I could to staunch his many wounds without disturbing his shirt or his old bandages, where they had been driven into his flesh. I bandaged his arm with his cravat. But alone I could not lift him. Lean though he was, he was taller than I, and a dead weight. I was beginning to despair that he would die in my arms, when a horse neighed above us and a man in the uniform of the 71st dismounted. 'Twas Rob Jackson.

"So there you are, lassie- Who - Oh no - _Not_ Tavington!"

"He's hurt bad..."

"Sir?" Jackson knelt and swiftly took note of the extent of his wounds. "- You're right... Still - if we put him across the saddle..."

"He'll die! His sides -"

"He's deid if we leave him!"

Rob took off his sash, and bound it around Will's body, to cover and support his injuries. Although not tall, he was a stocky, muscular young fellow, and together we were able to raise Will to his feet.

There was now no more strength in my fine Colonel than in a corpse. As we manhandled him up on to the horse, he began screaming in agony. I steeled myself against his cries. Better risk death thus, than the certain fate he would meet if taken alive, given his ill-fame among the Rebels. For all his cruel wounds, they would hang him from a tree, as they had hanged Major Ferguson's officers... Poll had told me what that villain Carr had said at Red Chimneys: "Would to God every tree in the wilderness bore such fruit!"2 And there was none they would liefer have seen with a rope about his neck than my darling...

Jackson secured Will - who, thankfully, soon passed out - to the saddle with his sword-belt. Then he stepped down and held the bridle: " Get him out of here, lassie! There's naught matters mair nor his safety!"

"And yours?"

"Wheesht! I'm of no account!" He put his hand beneath my rump and pushed me up behind Will. "_Ride_!"

I bent low, to shield my love and to dodge the firing, and dug my heels into the horse's flanks...

I glanced back but once, to see Jackson tying his white handkerchief to his cane, and walking straight toward the enemy lines...3

And my father?

- Could rot in hell.

_TO BE CONTINUED_

**Next Chapter:** Will begins his greatest battle; Augusta teaches the Lord General one lesson, and learns another from him.

**Notes:**

1. In the universe of _The Patriot_, Cowpens is a rather different battle to reality, different personnel c., so I've had to fudge a bit between the real battle and the movie one. The atmospheric/weather conditions - including the illusion of two suns - are from Babits' _Devil of a Whipping_.

2. Paddy Carr, an Ulsterman who had emigrated to Georgia, and the sort of vindictive and vicious Rebel we saw little of in _The Patriot_, said, after the hangings of prisoners after King's Mountain, "Would to God every tree in the wilderness bore such fruit as that!" (His words prefigure uncomfortably Abel Meeropol's 1939 lyrics, recorded brilliantly by Billie Holiday: "Southern trees bear strange fruit/Blood on the leaves and blood at the root...") Carr was murdered over 20 years later, possibly by former Loyalists.

3. In reality, Rob Jackson (1750-1827), the young depute surgeon with the 71st, gave his horse to Ban Tarleton to get him off the field. Jackson, a Lanarkshire farmer's son, had previously worked as a surgeon on whalers and in Jamaica. He later became a significant figure in the campaigns to improve medical standards in the army. Bass (_The Green Dragoon_) and Boatner (_Encyclopaedia of the American Revolution_) have some interesting passages on him.


	13. Of a Lesson for the Lord General, & One ...

**13: Of a Lesson for the Lord General, and One Likewise from Him.**

The mighty man lay mightily fallen, forgetful of his horsemanship.

Homer's _Iliad_, XII, 776, translated by Alexander Pope

We caught up with the main party of fleeing Dragoons. They were fighting off a band of Rebels who had looted a portion of the baggage train.1 The rest of the baggage - including the surgeons' wagon - was in enemy hands, but the men retrieved what they could of the rest. As soon as we had got clear of the Rebels, we drew rein and grouped together beside a stream.

Captain Tarleton had lost his helmet and wore a bloodied handkerchief bound about a flesh-wound in his arm. Spattered with mud and blood, his auburn curls dishevelled and out of queue, he looked bewildered and very young.

"Where's the Colonel- Anyone seen the Colonel?" he asked frantically.

I pointed to the limp form slung over the saddle before me. "Here."

"Jesus Christ!"

And I saw a sudden change dawn in his dark eyes, as if in that one moment he changed from boy to man.

"Right, men -" and he swallowed hard "- I'm in command. Understood? No questioning my orders- Now let's get the wounded into the wagons, and put some good distance 'twixt us and those dogs!"

And he himself dismounted, and with a couple of other men helped me lift Will down. There were other wounded, too, and in our brief respite I did what I could for them with makeshift dressings. Those who could not ride - including William - were laid in the few wagons we retained.

"Where's Smith?" I asked. No-one had seen him. "Captain Wilkins?"

"I saw him give himself up to the Rebels, damned coward!" called MacRae. "A winding-sheet be on him!"

Given himself up? A likely story...

I had feared I had killed Will in bearing him from the field so roughly, but he was not a man to die easy, as he had said himself. There was not time to investigate his wounds more closely, but I ensured that they were covered, that the bleeding had eased, and his breathing steadied. I held him in my arms to keep him warm and lessen the shock of the wagon's jolting movement on his battered body.

Captain Tarleton managed to find a local guide, Adam Gowdilock, to lead us through the creeks and forests. We rode on until dark (early at that time of year) when we crossed the high waters of the Broad River at Hamilton's Ford, where we bivouacked for the night. Smith and a few more stragglers caught up with us, and Tarleton stoically began taking a roll call. When comrades called back: "Killed", "I saw him fall", the full extent of our 'butcher's bill' struck home - and yet Ban did not falter. I realised now that Will had been right to see the young man's potential: in time of crisis, he rose to the occasion with a coolness that would have shamed many men his senior.

By now, Will had regained consciousness. I made him as comfortable as I could, among a heap of sacks and blankets, and unbraided his hair, so that it was not so hard for him to lie upon. He had not strength to speak, but when I washed the blood and sweat from his haggard face, he gave me a look of such tenderness that my pen falters even now as I recall it.

"It's true, then?" asked Smith, stepping up into the wagon, a lantern in his hand. "They told me you and Jackson - that he -"

I nodded.

"Then let's see what we can do..."

He knelt down beside Will, and glanced over his blood-stained waistcoat and shirt, and the makeshift dressings Rob Jackson and I had bound about his wounds.

"Colonel - sir - 'tis a good job that you were brought off the field. But now... Augusta and I have got to patch you up, eh? His Lordship'll want you back in one piece..."

"Lordship... wants me... corpse..." he murmured, and coughed.

"We won't give him that satisfaction, then, will we?" I said.

He squeezed my hand. He understood what had to be done.

"Put his belt in his mouth: he'll need something to bite down on," Ned whispered to me. I obeyed.

He still had his shagreen needle-case in his coat pocket, although the rest of his equipment had been lost. But we would manage. We had to. We had water and some bandages, and someone found salt in one of the other wagons. A few of the men had rum rations in their canteens, which they gave up for the bathing of the injured.

They say that when the Fates wish to punish us, they grant us our deepest desires. And so it was, with the cold rain beating down on the wagon's cover, and by flickering lantern-light, that I stripped the man I loved of his clothing and touched his naked skin. But 'twas the bitterest of prizes, for I felt only pity and rage. As I cut away the sodden rag which had been his linen shirt, his lithe body, once so strong, was sticky and slippery with blood. Smith sent MacRae to bring water from the pot over the campfire. When the Highlander returned, he held the Colonel down.

Will's grey-green eyes widened and his teeth clenched ever more tightly on the belt as Smith probed his wounds. First, the stab below the right collarbone, close to its junction with the breastbone:

"Lucky..." Ned poked around inside with his fingers. "Missed the artery... Missed the lung, too, thank God..."

Will, in agony, fixed his gaze on my face. I bathed away the blood as Smith fished out fragments of his waistcoat and shirt which had been dragged deep into his shoulder. From the muscle of the left arm, he drew out a pistol ball. He rinsed the wounds with rum and packed them with rolls of cloth.

Next, we tended the gash which ran diagonally across Will's chest from the breastbone towards the right shoulder. It was deep, cutting into the pectoral muscle. He bit down harder as I stitched it up, quickly and crudely. Smith was already examining his left side, on to which he must have fallen heavily when he was unhorsed, for it was bruised black from shoulder to hip.

The worst awaited us when we cut through the blood-soaked bandages around his ribcage, and gently bathed away the pieces. The wound from the Young Master's musket ball began bleeding again. The stitches had ripped apart in his fall, while most of the left ribs were broken. Only the support of the bandages had prevented the bones from piercing his vitals. The stitches could not be re-done, so ragged and bruised were the edges of the wound. Meanwhile, in his right side, a bayonet had evidently slid up through the bandaging and struck the curved edge of the cartilage that joins the false ribs to the breastbone. The blade had then glanced over the ribs and torn its way out. The gash, about eight or nine inches long, laid bare his chest-wall.

I damned my father and brother a thousand times over...

Ned sewed up the wound in the right side. I tried in vain to staunch the left.

"Let me..." he said. "- Bugger it! There's not enough light in here to see to tie off the vessels... MacRae, stick a bayonet in the fire. Hot as you can get it."

While his servant was gone, we laid soft dressings over Will's other wounds. He knew what was happening, and was, I think, readying his nerves. After all, he had had a bullet cut from his back, a piece of bone from his lung, ere now...

MacRae came back with the heated bayonet on the end of a branch. Will braced himself. MacRae held him down by the shoulders and I sat on his legs, while Smith applied the blade as a cautery to his mangled left side.

I felt his body convulse. He cried out. His head slumped sideways on to his shoulder, his eyes closed. I smelled scorched meat.

For a moment, I feared - but then I saw his chest still rising and falling. Ned checked the pulse in his throat. "Fainted. Wish he'd done that sooner!"

The leather belt which had slipped from betwixt his teeth was almost bitten through...

And so, while he was unconscious, we finished dressing his hurts and re-bandaged his body from waist to shoulder. Then we laid him, wrapped in blankets, tilted towards the left, with rolled-up coats beneath his head and shoulders to raise him up.2

"He needs rest and quiet now. There's no more we can do," Ned sighed.

I stroked the soft tangle of long, dark hair.

"Do you want me to help with the others?" I asked.

Ned shook his head. "Stay with him. If - when - he wakes... MacRae will be outside, if you need help." He patted me on the shoulder and left the wagon.

I kept vigil beside Will throughout the night. For a little while he whimpered in his sleep, feverish. I bathed his brow with a damp cloth, but kept him well wrapped in blankets, lest he take a chill from the icy air. Huddled in an infantryman's coat, I nestled close to him, so that I could feel each breath he drew against my face, and would know if he became distressed. His eyelashes made black crescents against the pallor of his skin; his delicate lips bruised and torn at the corner.

So much for 'The Butcher of the Santee'! If his enemies could see him now, I thought - just another man with a ruined body: exhausted, helpless... Dying. But no, he must not die yet. We had scarcely made a beginning together... I smoothed back his hair, kissing his bloodless face, and whispered all the tender words I had not allowed myself to utter when he could have heard them.

And so he slept, and I lay wakeful, snatching only broken fragments of sleep, until the warm mist of his breath in the cold morning air assured me that he still clung to life.

We moved on again, struggling to catch up with Cornwallis and the rest of the army.3 We reached them at Turkey Creek, some five-and-twenty miles from the Cow-pens. There were tents, and decent fires, and some chance to rest. The camp was all a-bustle, as General Leslie too had arrived, with reinforcements. Almost miraculously, Rob Jackson also appeared with some of the less severely wounded from the 71st.

"Augusta!" he waved, as I dismounted from the wagon.

"Rob! I thought you were taken or killed!"

"Not me- Does your Colonel live?"

"For the present," I replied. "He's very weak. What befell you?"

He grinned. "Why, I went to tend our prisoners, but that great brute Morgan said they couldnae cope with their wounded, let alane ours, so let me have 'em sent back in wagons to Camden under parole- No parole for me, though, so here I am with those that could walk- Oh, and here's an unco' thing: I saw your friend Captain Wilkins just afore I left their camp..."

"And?"

"..._Major_ Wilkins, I should say. Tricked out within the hour in a clean blue uniform. On Burwell's staff, so it seems...!"

"Then Will was right! He should've hanged him when he had the chance- Any word of my father? Is he dead?"

"Alas, no. Though he'll be a lucky man if he lives, or if he walks again."

"I should have cut his throat."

Rob shrugged. "That's too quick, lassie."

"Depends how fast you do it," I answered, remembering Rollins: I had not exactly hurried _him_ out of this world.

One young officer of Fraser's, his arm in a sling, began squabbling with Captain Tarleton.

"Your Colonel got us into this mess - charging without orders. He can damn well get us out of it!"

"He had his reasons, I'm sure!"

"Reasons? Aye - the greater glory of William Tavington!"

"You don't know that, MacKenzie! Besides, the man's _dying_!" answered Ban harshly.

The Lieutenant laughed mockingly. "He _will be_ when His Lordship gets hold of him!" Then, suddenly, he turned on me: "What say you, Mistress Martin? You warm his bed, do you not?"

I straightened my back, and fixed MacKenzie with a murderous look. "I've been trying to keep him alive. He's bayoneted twice in the body," I said grimly.

The infantry officer slunk back like a defeated dog.

"You should count yourself lucky I don't duel!" Ban called after him, then turned to me sombrely: "_Is_ he dying?"

I shrugged. "I don't know, sir. There don't seem to be any internal hurt, but... He's lost an awful lot of blood, and is torn up mighty bad. And he was so worn down and tired even before... If he takes a fever..." (or lock-jaw, or blood-poisoning, or any of several ills that may turn flesh-wounds into death... I thought).

"We have to wait and see?"

"That's about right, sir."

"But the Rebels won't wait."

"No, sir."

"I don't want to let him down, Miss Augusta."

I forced a smile: "You won't, sir."

MacRae and Jackson lifted Will down from the wagon. Colonel Webster generously gave up his tent and camp-bed for him, and ordered Hall to share some medical supplies with us. "First the Bulldog, and now him... Aye, 'tis a sorry business..." he muttered. For all of us who had seen him ride out so proud and gallant on the morning of the battle, 'twas the bitterest blow indeed to see him thus laid low.

At least there was time and space to wash him, and change his dressings. He had woken up, and groaned at any touch of his wounds, but he did not try to push my hands away.

As I finished, and plumped up the pillow at his back, I heard a familiar voice outside, interrogating MacRae: "Where's Colonel Tavington?"

"In the tent, Cheneral. With Miss Augusta. My Lord, don't -"

"_WHAT_!" the Lord General stormed "- Colonel, it is bad enough that you disobey my orders, but flagrant immor-" He halted abruptly as he entered. The scene that met his gaze was clearly _not_ what he had expected to find. "Oh dear God..."

I nodded respectfully: "My Lord."

"I - I am so sorry... I had no idea..."

Will struggled to speak. He could barely whisper. "Sir... I can explain..."

The General knelt beside the cot, apologetic and concerned. "You don't need to explain anything yet, Colonel. Time enough for that later. Are you in great pain?"

He raised an eyebrow, as if to say, "Ask a stupid question..."

"If there's anything I can do - You may have the services of my own physician -"

Will shook his head. "I have her..." He clasped my hand tenderly.

"Sir," I put in, "If it's about the cavalry charge -"

"That can wait. This is neither the time nor place for recriminations. If he recovers, perhaps at court-mar-"

"- No! Sir, you must know - there was a reason!" I interrupted.

He glanced from me to Will and back again. "Very well."

I began to explain: "My Lord, Will - the Colonel - had reason to believe there was a Rebel spy among his officers, and that the Rebels may already have known what your orders were. By charging when he did... he hoped to confound them."

"Is this the truth?"

Will nodded once.

"And this spy...?"

"Ask Rob Jackson," I said. "He's seen him in the Rebel lines. James Wilkins is on Burwell's staff. A Major. The Colonel tried to trap him before - at Pembroke - but Wilkins deliberately... That's why all those people died. Lockhart knew our suspicions. And Ensign Jackson will tell you."

The Lord General bowed his head. "I am... so sorry. Perhaps I have been hasty in my judgements, Colonel," he said. "I was too hasty just now, assuming - You are... a fine officer. One of my best. If I have not always appreciated it, the fault lies with me." He turned to me: "Colonel Tavington needs rest and care, Miss Martin: I shall give orders that he is to return to Camden with some of the other more serious casualties."

"No..." Will murmured, looking alarmed. "My regiment..."

"Captain Tarleton is to serve formally in your place - until you are well," the General insisted.

"My Lord..."

"Hush, William," I said, stroking his shoulder. "You're very sick. In Camden, you'll be safe. You need to get strong again..."

But from his look I could see that the thought of leaving his men was breaking his heart. That if he was to die, he would rather die on the march, with the regiment, not in a hospital... But the General could not allow it, and neither would I.

Later that evening, Jackson was summoned to explain to Lord Cornwallis and General Leslie all that had befallen regarding Wilkins. Then, while Smith tended Will and the other non-walking casualties, I was called to the Lord General's tent.

"Miss Martin," said His Lordship, "Ensign Jackson has confirmed all that you told me, so there's an end of it. You have my assurance that Lieutenant-Colonel Tavington's honour and reputation will suffer no harm from this matter, or the Pembroke affair, in my reports. Since he is to be sent back to Camden, you must go with him... That is your wish, is it not?"

Back to Log-town... To Mrs. MacRae, and Poll, and Deb, and Josh, and dear, kind Sandy who would surely heal William's wounds... Of course I wanted go there, and yet - "Yes, my lord: it is my wish. But sir, my duty - Smith and the regiment ?"

"They will _have to_ manage. Colonel Tavington has been a good friend to you, has he not, Miss Martin?"

I nodded shyly: "Indeed, sir."

"Then _he_ is where your duty lies."

"My Lord?"

He smiled wistfully: "Not so long ago, I knew an officer - a senior one - who thought himself quite indispensible to the service. He worried a great deal how his army would ever fare without him. Then he received news from home that the woman he loved - loved more than any living creature - was sick. Mortally sick. Suddenly the fate of his army, the fate of the war itself, seemed as naught to him. After all, the army would still be there for him, even after she... I - he - did not regret spending all the time she had left with her. 'Twas precious, and not to be wasted."

"You must have loved Lady Cornwallis very dearly, my lord."4

He cleared his throat. "No more, Miss Martin, than I believe that you love your Colonel. Your place is with him - especially if... But we must not give up hope, must we?"

"Indeed, sir, we must not!"

'Twas with heavy hearts that our men said farewell to us as we set off in the morning, with small escort, back to Camden. Most, I think, feared that they would never see their Colonel alive again. It was the most wretched of journeys, worse even than that which had borne us from the field of Cow-pens. The weather continued inclement: icy and damp, even for the season, and, bundled into a single wagon, it was difficult to keep half-a-dozen wounded men clean and comfortable on the way. Some called for water, all called for "Mother!", and I tried to be mother to them all - not least my own poor love.

We stayed for one night at Winnsboro, where we obtained fresh blankets and bandages, and buried two of the men. Then we pressed on. Will was conscious of every rut and bump of the road, crying aloud. The pain seemed sharpest just below the left nipple and under the arm, well above the seared wound in that side. He began to cough. I was fearful that the jolting cart had caused his broken ribs to pierce him internally... He coughed so violently that I had to hold him about the waist to prevent his stitches breaking open.

"Take it easy, honey... Soon we'll be in Log-town... Sandy will make you better..." I said, soothing him as I would a sick child. But I doubted my own words.

For by the time we reached Camden, he was burning with fever.

_TO BE CONTINUED_

**Next Chapter: **Will's recovery continues, as old friends rally round.

**Notes:**

1. Rebels attacking the baggage: some earlier writers, Bass included, had claimed that the Legion had had to fight off _Loyalists_ who looted their baggage. As Babits has shown, this is a mistake: the culprits were Rebels.

2. Will's treatment is nothing unusual for the time. Fingers were commonly used to extract foreign bodies from wounds, and in the absence of anaesthetics, a belt or stick was used to give the patient something to bite on to prevent screams (off-putting to other patients and distracting to the surgeon).

3. I have tried to make the film's universe reasonably compatible with reality. Of course in the real world, Cornwallis c hadn't actually been at Cowpens. But I've had a little fun at the expense of Roderick MacKenzie...

4. Cornwallis had returned home for a year when he received the news of his wife Jemima's illness. He returned to the Colonies, to take part in the Southern Campaigns, only after her death on 14 February 1779. She was still in her 30s, and they had 2 children under 12.


	14. Wherein the Colonel Fights His Most Diff...

**14: Wherein the Colonel Fights His Most Difficult Battle**

If the heart of a man is deprest with cares,  
The mist is dispell'd when a woman appears.1

John Gay, _The Beggar's Opera_, 1728

The relief I felt when the stockaded walls of Log-town came in sight through the rain and mist can scarce be imagined. Our wagon trundled through the gate, and at length drew up outside the house that served as our hospital in Camden. There, we began to unload the surviving casualties - the least seriously hurt first. They were laid on the floor in the high-ceilinged hallway.

Sandy, wigless and already in his leather apron, called out when he caught sight of me: "Augusta! How could Ned spare you ?"

"'Tis the Colonel," I said.

He pushed his way forward as two of the convalescents who served as orderlies lifted down the moaning, coughing bundle of soiled blankets and bloody dressings which had been our proud dragoon.

All colour drained from his face: "William...?"

The wounded man opened his eyes - brilliant with fever. "Father... Father... Don't leave me..." And another cough tore through him.

"His body's cut up bad," I said flatly. "Stitches broke, and half his ribs, too."

"YOU!" Sandy shouted to one of the men. "Run and tell Lord Rawdon that Colonel Tavington's among the wounded new brought in! And be quick!"

Meanwhile, we pressed on with bathing and examining the patients. Deb carried away the basins of dirty water: she did not speak, but gave me a look of the deepest pity and grief.

Will lay again on Sandy's stained, sticky table: much altered since we had first dressed the wound from my brother's rifle, barely a week ago. Then I had wondered at the grace and beauty of the body which was now so much hacked flesh and purple bruises.

"Weel, he smells better now with the piss and vomit off him," Sandy sighed.

But still I scented blood, like metal in my nostrils...

I helped lift Will into a sitting position, and held him upright while Sandy tapped with his fingers against his back. Will moaned and coughed, his body sagging in my arms.

"Hush now," I said, caressing him.

"As I feared: pleurisy in the left side," the doctor diagnosed.

"I'll make poultices," I said.

"He may need a bleeding."

"He's near bled to death already, Sandy!"

"Even so...I'd liefer not stick a lancet in... It's the side that was hurt in the Jerseys... and he's weak..."

Although Sandy's very presence reassured me, his words made me still fear. In anxious silence, we dressed Will's hurts with poppy-water compresses and clean, soft cloths.

There was a knock on the door. A soldier saluted: "Dr. Lockhart, sir! Colonel Lord Rawdon to see you! "

"Then let him in."

The youngofficer loped in, tall, awkward as ever, his face (oddly reminiscent of Hanger's monkeys, with its wide-set eyes and long upper lip) unusually sombre. He glanced from Will to Sandy to me, and back to Will.

"So the first reports were true... What's the mischief, Lockhart?"

"As you see, my lord."

"I've ordered a bed to be made up in one of the rooms in headquarters - with a fire, too. He'll be more comfortable than on straw on the floor in here..."

"He's never sought special favours," I said.

"But he needs them now," Rawdon answered. "God knows, we can't afford to lose an officer of his experience!"

Sandy smiled. "I'll get a litter, and blankets - It's cold outside. Augusta, you go to Mrs. MacRae now, and get yourself cleaned up and changed. I'll see you presently at headquarters!"

I did as I was bidden.

Eilidh MacRae was chasing her children away from her laundry tub when I saw her: sleeves rolled up, arms red from the boiled water. She gave a cry when she saw my muddy, bloody uniform and dishevelled appearance:

"Is it Ruairidh ?"

"Well, last time I saw him... He's with the regiment... It's the Colonel... Dr. Lockhart is with him... He's wounded sore, and very sick, and..." I could no longer restrain my grief, but fell to sobbing in her arms.

"_Isd, isd_... That is not all the grief that has come to us... Deborah had hard news of Caleb. A patrol near the Black Swamp found him. Found his head on a stake, alone... They say your father..." 2

"God damn my father! 'Twas he that hurt the Colonel... I shot him, but he ain't dead yet. Or if he is... But my mother cursed the Colonel, and I fear... I fear..."

"But Captain Bordon lives, and the Major is getting strong!"

"Bordon?" I wiped my eyes and nose on my hand. That was some comfort, and news that might hearten Will once he was settled and comfortable. I guessed it would be some time yet before he was fit enough to cope with _George Hanger_...

She forced a smile. "Wash yourself, and I will be getting you your clothes: Polly has been wearing some of them..."

Once Eilidh had removed her laundry from the tub, we dragged it into the tent, and I cleaned myself up as best as I could. Hastily, I donned an old quilted petticoat and woollen jacket, and gathered together all that I guessed I would need for poultices and medicine.

I made my way to headquarters. One of the guards made to detain me, but Rawdon leaned over the balustrade on the landing and called: "Let her pass: she's Tavington's." Under other circumstances, I might have argued being labelled thus: but not now. As long as Will was sick, I was indeed his...

I had never been in any of the bedrooms in the big house before. The Colonel had been given a small room, not lavish, especially in its winter dressing. But with the blue-painted panelling, the shutters closed, the bed hung with dark, thick curtains, and a fire burning, it felt safe and warm and snug after all the dangers we had passed.

Will lay abed, his handsome dark head and bruised body - save for the left breast and shoulder, heavily bandaged - propped up on pillows. His eyes were half-closed. He groaned and coughed, and writhed with pain.

A servant brought a pitcher of hot water, and so I was able to make up a mustard plaster, which I applied to the back of Will's left shoulder. Never mind if it inflamed his old scar: what mattered was easing his breathing. Sandy used the cupping-glass (less drastic than opening a vein in his arm) to draw blood from his chest. I bathed his burning brow and throat with warm water (for cold would have risked chilling him, or caused too great a shock to his heart). We spoke to each other only in whispers: short, clipped orders to each other and the servants, and consoling words to our patient...

"'Tis time you got yourself some sleep, Augusta!" Sandy gently chided.

"...If he can keep it down, he must take some Indian hyssop tomorrow," I yawned.

"Bed, lassie."

"But he _needs_ me..."

"He needs you strong, not deid on your feet!"

"But if he...?" I could not say it, for it was my worst fear.

He pointed to the couch at the foot of the bed. "Lie there, and if there's any change, I'll wake you."

I smiled weakly, and obeyed. Closing my eyes, I listened to Will's harsh breathing and cough; to his calling for his parents and Sandy's soothing reassurances, as to a sick child; to the crackle of the wood in the hearth; to the steady ticking of a long-case clock in the corridor outside... And I slept.

I woke with a start in the morning, and stretched out my limbs. Sandy, blear-eyed from lack of sleep, held a finger to his lips.

"How is he?" I whispered, and tiptoed to Will's side.

But I did not need to ask: only to touch the pale hand that lay on the coverlet, cool and still, only to watch the movement of the bandaged chest, rising and falling more easily. He coughed a little, but slept on. I smiled to myself, and kissed his unshaven cheek. He sighed, and nestled into the pillow. When I turned, I noticed that Sandy was smiling proudly at us. Then he pretended to be polishing his spectacles.

'Twas past noon when the dense, dark lashes flickered open with a movement like to a butterfly's wings. Sandy had gone back to the hospital, to sleep and then to tend the other patients. I opened the shutters to let in the winter light - the same pale grey as the large eyes which followed me around the room. He coughed. I poured a mug of water for him, and held it to his lips.

He took a few sips, then leaned back on the pillow.

"There, honey. Is that better?"

He merely blinked at me.

"William?"

He took a few moments to speak, and when he did, I wished he had not. His voice was a hoarse whisper: "Why... did you not let me die? I would rather..." And he coughed again.

I held him around the waist, lest he strain his stitches and broken ribs. There seemed to be no strength left in his body. "You mustn't say that, honey. You're safe now! Why, with Sandy and me, and all your friends, we'll have you on horseback again in no time at all!" ('Twas a lie, I knew, but a well-meant one.)

He turned his head from side to side wearily. "I don't deserve to live... After Pembroke..."

"Like I told His Lordship, Wilkins is gone back to the Rebels. Everyone knows what he is now... That it's not your fault..."

"Hurts... Tired..."

I stroked his hair back gently. "I know. That's been your trouble all the time, you driving yourself so hard. You were worn out even before the battle, so it's no wonder you been so ill since... But you must get strong now, you must... Even Bordon ain't dead yet! And we all need you..."

I made a tea of dried Indian hyssop, and gave it him to drink. He lay still, watching me awhile, then slept again.

Over the next few days, Sandy and I - with help from Deb and Poll - kept Will rested, quiet and comfortable. He spent much of the time asleep, or faint from cuppings. His cough became less frequent, and did less violence to his injured body. When Sandy tapped his back, the dull sound of infection gave way to a more natural resonance. We had all dreaded - but had dared not voice - the risk of pneumonia, which would assuredly have killed him. But he retained his grasp on life, weakened though he was. Our main business remained the healing of his wounds, which were more than physical.

We did all we could to make him comfortable: bathing and shaving him, dressing his hurts with compresses to ease the pain and inflammation, keeping his linen fresh, combing his hair, turning him in the bed. He was on a low diet of gruel (usually grits with milk), beef tea, and broth, which was the usual practice for patients in a feverish condition, but it seemed to me to leave him with little vitality.

As the days turned to weeks, the stitched and seared scars on his body betimes broke open and leaked matter. I had to cut some of the stitches in his right breast and side for the purulence to escape, and to swab out the hurt in his left arm. "Laudable pus," said Sandy, saying that its emergence aided healing. But there was little laudable about the stink of it, or the bouts of fever, sometimes even to delirium, which accompanied these symptoms. All we could do at such times was to cool him, and wash his wounds with boiled, salted water, and comfort his distress. Worst of all was the deep bayonet-stab under the collar-bone, which would gather and break every few weeks.

In fever, he would at times talk as if enduring his previous wounds in New Jersey, raving against his treacherous attackers; or he would be as a child, calling for his mother; or crying out against the fire of Pembroke, while he himself burned. At other times, he spoke of a man's brains spattered all about, and sobbed at the horror of it. And I cradled him in my arms, and told him that it was but a dream, and he need not fear such shadows. "Father... My father..." he murmured.

But he withdrew into himself in waking hours, partly from pain, partly from the exhaustion of the nerves and spirits from which he had been suffering for far longer. He spoke rarely, and when he did, was brief and to the point, then silent again.

Supported at each side by some of the fitter convalescents, who helped with nursing, or by myself and Poll or Sandy, he could take a few paces to the couch. There, wrapped in a brocade banyan loaned by Rawdon, and several blankets, he would lie during the day. I read to him from his favourite books: not the gloomy pieties of Young, but the robust wit of Smollett and Fielding - yet he turned his face to the wall.

I kept wondering if I should write the letter to his mother and sister as he had bidden me: more than once I had made beginnings of it, when he had seemed near death, yet something had always held me back from completing it...

"It sure breaks the heart to see him jes' lyin' like that," said Poll, shaking her head in pity, as I talked with her and Captain Bordon at the hospital.

Miles Bordon was a different case altogether. Wasted as a stick, and as yellow as Hanger had been with jaundice (and indeed looking far worse, for the hue clashed much with his red hair), he tried to smile cheerily, even as I laid a fresh poultice, spread on thin cotton, over the wound just below his ribs. But as Sandy had said, liver wounds are unpredictable, and, without infection, 'tis an organ that heals well.

"It really is a shame," he said. "But he is going to live, isn't he?"

I shrugged. "I reckon so, but he seems scarce to want to."

"Nonsense! I have my wife and little ones to think on, but he has a mother and brothers and sisters... Miss Featherstone, what say you?"

Poll sighed: "Augusta, you better make him well! For those we've lost, you can't let him go!"

And her eyes met mine, and I knew how she would have changed places with me in an instant, if her beloved Major, or her pretty little cousin, could have been lying where my love lay, with at least a chance of life... She helped Bordon sit up so that I could pass the bandage around his waist.

"That's healing clean," I said. "I swear you'll be up and about long before the Colonel."

"Funny, isn't it?" he said. "And he with flesh-wounds... Poor fellow!"

"I think his past lies heavy on him."

"He's done nothin' those murderin' varmin don't deserve," said Poll. "You heard what befell Pyle's men? What's 'Tavington's Quarter' to _Lee's_...?"

I nodded. For the past few days little else had been spoken of about camp than the treacherous ruse to which Pyle's men had fallen victim, when Lee had led them to think he was Tarleton...3

George Hanger was still weak and thin, relying on a stick for support, but he had been helping Rawdon with paperwork and in spirits was almost his old self. Sandy and I went to visit him in his tent. He had managed to get his hands on some coffee, for which we were most grateful. Scipio left off grooming Sam and Adams, and exchanged anxious glances with me as he poured our drinks.

"How's old Tav? Still _in_ _limine mortis_?" asked the Major. Behind his flippancy, I sensed real concern.

Sandy nodded gloomily. "He's tholing it, but he's not fighting."

"Forgive my frankness, but given what I've heard about his _father_... 'Like father, like son', do you think?"

"But his father killed himself," I said. The incident was vivid enough in Will's mind to resurface still in his fever-dreams, after over twenty years...

"I don't mean he'd - But in the sense of just _giving up_..." Hanger went on.

"We'll not let him," said Sandy. "There's no reason for it. If he were going to die, he'd have done so ere now."

"Perhaps if I were to go and talk to him - a brother officer -"

"Major Hanger...?" I fixed George with an expression which carried the import, 'are you jesting?'

Sandy cleared his throat: "Perhaps when he's stronger, Major. I fancy he may not be up to your whimsical spirits just yet."

"Hm. I hadn't thought of that. But he always used to laugh at me for some reason. Not _with_. _At_." Hanger frowned in exaggerated self-pity. "But laughing might do him some good."

"Not if he truly splits his sides," I muttered.

"That bad?"

We nodded.

George looked pensive for a moment: "What are his chances, Lockhart? I mean, of resuming his command?"

"That depends on the muscles healing up, and how tight the scarring is," Sandy replied. "It's early days yet, with the wounds still breaking open. Betimes in such cases, movement is restricted."

Oh God, I thought: what would Will do if he could not return to duty? If he were unable to wield a sabre again? And George outranked Tarleton...

"And how's young Banastre faring with the Legion?" he continued...

The news, when it came, was mixed good and ill. First, Jamie Webster and Ban had taken on Lee and that hog-faced Willie Washington by a place called Wetzell's Mills, with no outcome clear. Then, Lord Cornwallis and General Leslie defeated the Rebels at Guilford, but at a cost almost too hard to endure.4 Colonel Stewart was slain, as was General O'Hara's young son. O'Hara himself was dangerously hurt, and gallant Webster also wounded, though less severely. But within a fortnight after, we heard that, of the two, 'twas Webster who had died. ("This is a sair blow for his auld father," said Sandy, for he knew the old Reverend Dr. Webster well - as did most of Edinburgh.) The Legion, at least, had not fared too badly, with but three killed and fourteen wounded on the day, though more died later. Cornwallis and his army were pressing on towards Wilmington...

Ban Tarleton wrote of it to the Colonel. Sandy read the letter aloud to him who lay on the couch, the soft darkness of his hair, spread across his pillows, heightening the dull wax-white of his skin. I noticed the doctor falter over passages in it, as if he were editing it as he read. I read it for myself after Sandy had returned to the hospital, and realised why he had done so...

Will looked up at me. His smoke-and-jade eyes - always large - now dominated his drawn face, while the hollows beneath them, like the lines about his mouth, were more pronounced. He arched an eyebrow quizzically. "So what was he trying _not_ to tell me?"

I hesitated. "Nothing... merely that Ban himself was wounded."

"Badly?"

"No, but..."

"The truth, now, Augusta?"

"He writes with his left hand. The right was shot; about half of it had to be cut off."

"Oh Jesus... Poor little lad!"

"He's mending."

"But... Again, it is all my fault..." he sighed wearily. "He's just a boy, he shouldn't be commanding..."

"There was nothing else you could have done, with George and Miles back here sick and hurt, and you were nigh to death yourself! Besides, he's just a year younger than I, and he knows his duty."

"Failed," he murmured. "I have failed everyone."

"How so?"

"Failed the General, failed my friends, failed my country... Most of all, failed you, failed myself..."

"You're the hero of the Cow-pens! You should hear what they say of you in camp! Rawdon admires you - I've heard him say it! How have you failed?"

"The Ghost... I didn't kill... I had the chance, but I failed... You must know, Augusta..."

I put the letter aside, and perched on the edge of the couch beside him, so that I might put an arm gently about his shoulders. He had never carried much, if any, spare flesh. Now his frame was gaunt beneath his loose, unfastened nightshirt and Rawdon's brocade robe.

"We saw each other, through the smoke, through the din... I charged, with sabre drawn, but he - That damned flag. Bayard threw me - hard. God knows how I had strength to get up again, but you don't have time to think or feel anything when it's happening... And so we fought... I cut him to ribbons, Augusta: I had him on his knees..."

"What happened, Will?"

He sighed: "While I caught my breath, I taunted him how he'd sworn to kill me before the end of the war; that he was not the better man. Then I made ready to strike, but when I drew my arm back, this -" and he touched the dressing on his right breast - "his knife-slash opened up - pain. I faltered."

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if to strengthen himself against the memories, then continued: "So he turned and rammed a bayonet into my side. I felt it scrape against my ribs. '_My sons_ were better men,' he said, and stabbed me again." He indicated the troublesome wound close to the junction of right collarbone and breastbone. "Then I must have swooned, or something... But I failed our cause, I failed Cornwallis, and I failed you, which is worse. I'm _not_ the better man... He and his sons..."

"You know that ain't true, Will! That whole passel of whey-faced brats couldn't hold a candle to you, nor could he himself!"

"But you deserve _better_..."

"No, honey," said I, gently stroking his hair, his shoulder, his hand. Recalling how magnificent he had looked when I first saw him, I wanted to weep for pity. "The old saying's oftimes wrong: the best man don't always win. You're a _good_ man, and that's what matters most. You're just feeling low because you're wounded, and sick. When you're healed..." and I let my hand rest against his heart.

"- Your father will kill me."

"My father will be lucky if he can walk, Rob Jackson said. That's if he lives. You carved him up mightily well. And that was before I shot him."

His eyes widened: "_You_...?"

"When I found you lying wounded. He put a bayonet to my throat. I said he'd have to kill me afore I'd let him finish you off. I thought - I hoped - I'd killed him, but getting you to safety mattered more than making sure of him. So no more nonsense 'bout failing and not wanting to live!"

"So his _sons_ were not the better men, but his _daughte_r was, eh?"

"Well, I tried. And I took his Indian axe. I thought 'bout giving it to Crowfeather, but... You've earned it."

He lay thoughtful for a moment. "Did you ever write that letter to my mother?"

"No: I started it a few times, but I always figured you'd want to do it yourself when you were healed."

He smiled sweetly up at me, and, for all that he was so worn and tired, I saw traces of his old handsomeness. He was going to recover, I now knew for certain.

And so, next day, he wrote, leaning on my writing box, and resting his arm from time to time because of the ache in his shoulder and chest:

Fort Carolina,  
Camden

12th Apr: 81

My D:r Mother D:rest Izz -  
I am sorry that I have not been able to write you since Christmas. You will have seen by the returns in the Gazette that I was wounded at the field of Cow-Pens, but I am now healing. I owe my cure again to good D.r Lockhart, to Miss Martin (who is in ev'ry respect an Ornament to her sex, despite her infamous Father) likewise to Ensign Jackson of Fraser's (who is not in any ways ornamental, but a good stout surgeon Fellow who loan'd me his Horse when I had need).

I was cut a little about the Flanks andbreast, andtook a Ball in the flesh of my arm, but to no great hasard of Life. However, Bayard, my "Cheval sans peur sans reproche", which I bought last y:r in Savannah, died as gallant as befitted his name, by the hand of the Banditti Martin. His Daughter, however, is surely my Guardian Angel, as Loyal brave as gentle good. She put a Ball in him when helping me from the Field andis at my Elbow even now to speed my Recovery.

I am at present quarter'd most comfortably in Col:l Lord R:'s Head-Quarters, since he claims I am too tender a plant to be nurs'd in the main Hospital. I think it more likely to spare my spirits from the constant Gossip of Hanger and Bordon, who are now both much mended. (Poor Bordon was wounded in a skirmish a few days before the Battle, and was fear'd to be dying.) It is a great Pleasure after so many months to sleep on a proper Mattress, andI fear shall spoil me for the rest of the War! I suspect R: to be more than a little asham'd of his use of my troops outwith my orders last summer, so this is how he makes amends.

At least I am put well out of Danger for the rest of this season's Campaign, but I hope that I shall be righted in time for the next, andreclaim my Troops from B: T: the Infant Prodigal. Though if Sir H: C: were to come down in force, he and my Lords could make an end of it, in which case, you would be seeing me at Manchester Cross sooner than expected!

I am glad this last Winter is now left far behind: at present I cannot bear to relate much that befell us. You will have read reports of the melancholly Fates of poor André and Ferguson. What was said in the Papers of the latter was not the worst of it: but it is not my desire to present Scenes of Savagery to you at y:r tea-table - (especially not before the eyes of an innocent young Cat, is that not so, Izzy? Toby's paw-prints on y:r last amus'd me much!)

How do my Nieces and Nephews? Are there any more since last I wrote? Kate hinted there might in Hugh's family: is it so?

My Best as ever to all the Family,  
Y:r Most affectionate Son andBrother  
Will: Tavington  
Lieut: Col:l B:L:

"'_Guardian angel_?'" I looked at him incredulously.

"I told you: I've mentioned you to them before," he answered calmly. "And you _are_ my guardian angel."

"These fevers have addled your brain," said I, and placed my hand on his brow.

"I assure you, I _am_ in my right mind," he replied. "When I am well - I promised you... Everything will be different..."

I glanced aside, uncertain what to say. I knew that he loved me - even as I him. He had said as much before the battle, when he had thought himself on the brink of death or glory, and had promised me a home with his family. But now...? His lips brushed lightly against my wrist as my hand lightly caressed the hollows of his face. I knew that the best I could expect was the same fate as my mother; and despite my affection for him, 'twas not one that I desired.

While Will lay on his sick-bed, our position at Camden was coming under increasing threat as the Rebels, especially under Greene, grew bolder. Fort Watson was besieged and like to fall. And scarce two weeks after Will wrote his letter home, Rawdon led out the 63rd, his own Irish Volunteers, Jack Coffin's New York Dragoons, and other Loyalists - besides some of the more able-bodied of the convalescents - to save us from Rebel attack.5

All morning we heard the thunder of field-guns and muskets close at hand. I could not but recall the time I had prayed for it when I was in the garret at Fresh Water, and how my prayers had been answered by the man who now lay in my care... But now - now we were in danger.

Will tried to stand up unaided, but staggered against the bedpost. He was giddy and unsteady from his frequent bleedings - from Sandy's cuppings, and from his wounds. "Help me, Augusta - I want to see from the window..."

"Can't see nothing from here," I said, guiding him gently back to the couch. "I reckon they're over near Hobkirk's Hill... I heard tell it's Greene and Huger, and Willie Washington."

He clenched his fists in frustration. "Damn it, I should be out there!"

"The New York Dragoons went out, with young Coffin," I said. "You'd only put yourself _in_ a coffin if you tried -"

"- Has Sandy said anything about when I'll be fit to return to the regiment?"

"Why, no... Not to me. A while yet, I reckon. - William, first you don't want to get well at all, then you want it to happen all of a sudden... You need to be patient, honey."

For a moment he looked as if he were about to snap back at me, but then he sighed, and smiled sadly. "You know, you're only doing for me what I did for a friend a few years ago in Philadelphia... It seems an age away now."

"Major Ferguson?"

"He used to say he'd been wedded to patience against his will, and would kick her 'oot o' doors' as soon as he could wield his limbs as before... But he never could. I don't know he managed to keep so cheery..."

"Is that what you fear?"

"If I can't ride the charge again -" and he gestured towards the sound of battle, "what else will I do, eh? What else _can_ I do?"

I circled my arms about his bony shoulders, and held him gently (for his body ached so sore and was so tender that I dare not embrace him as I wished). "'Tis not yet four whole months," I said, reassuringly. "Wait and see."

**Next Chapter:** Evacuated to Charlestown, Will has to face up to his future, while Augusta wonders what hers will be... 

**Notes:**

1. The couplet from _The Beggars' Opera_ is a full rhyme in 18C pronunciation: "appears" is pronounced "appares".

2. Caleb's fate is derived from that of a real courier, Harry, at the hands of Marion's men. 'Light-Horse Harry' Lee sliced up Colonel John Pyle's Loyalists at Haw River on 25 February 1781, after tricking them into thinking that his green-uniformed corps were Tarleton and the Legion. The casualties were heavy, not dissimilar to those at Waxhaws, though this incident is usually referred to as a "defeat" and not the more emotive "massacre", presumably because it was the Rebels who won it.

4. The battle of Guilford Courthouse was on 15 March. A British/Loyalist victory, but of the Pyrrhic sort. The casualties were horrific, many left overnight in the field because heavy rain hindered their rescue. According to one of the severe casualties, Gen. Charles O'Hara, who was disabled for some time afterwards with chest and thigh wounds: "I never did and I hope I never shall experience two such days and nights as those immediately after the battle. We remained on the very ground on which it had been fought, covered with dead, with dying and with hundreds of wounded, rebels as well as our own. A violent and constant rain that lasted above forty hours made it equally impracticable to remove or administer the smallest comfort to our wounded." Boatner's 'Encyclopaedia of the American Revolution' notes that young Lieutenant Augustus O'Hara (Royal Artillery) who was killed, was Charlie's illegitimate son. James Webster was not so severely wounded as O'Hara snr., but died at Elizabethtown 2 weeks later. Tarleton lost part of his right hand, including 2 digits - probably thumb and forefinger.

5. Battle of Hobkirk's Hill, 25 April, near Camden. The Rebels were driven off, but Rawdon subsequently decided to evacuate the town and camp a couple of weeks later.


	15. Wherein We Return to Charlestown

**15: Wherein We Return to Charlestown.**

I am ready, my dear Lucy, to give you satisfaction - if you think there is any in marriage.

John Gay, _The Beggar's Opera_, 1728

Despite the victory at Hobkirk's Hill, it was clear that we could not remain much longer in our home at Camden. Lord Rawdon was in poor health, and we had no hope of significant reinforcements, with Lord Cornwallis having headed north to Wilmington. On 10 May, the whole camp and town were evacuated: every man, woman and child, with livestock and baggage and all - soldiers and their families, slaves and refugees - strung out along the road for Charlestown.

I travelled in one of the wagons, with Sandy, Deb, Scipio, Hanger (and animals), Bordon and Will, and a few others. It had taken a great deal of persuading from Sandy to convince him that he was _not_ fit enough to ride all the way to Charlestown on horseback.

"I'm not a cripple!" he insisted.

"But you might be, if you fall off," Sandy said. "Your body's still weak."

"Augusta ?" He turned to me for a second opinion, but I shook my head.

"Sir," said I (for there were other soldiers in hearing), "Sir, it's been trouble enough getting your sides to heal, and that shoulder still ain't right. I'd rather not see you go hurting yourself again."

And he smiled a little, touched by my concern. For it seemed to me that as he grew stronger, the distance between us was bound to grow wider again. I wondered if the claims of love he had made had been the conjury of sickness.

And so we jolted along the roads back to the city. George did much to keep all in good cheer with song - Polly Parrot joining in. The ditties were for the most part, scarce suited to polite society - about disguised female drummers and the like - but at the time our spirits were such that any merriment was welcome, though Bordon and Will were both far too shy to join in:

"Her waist it is slender, her fingers long and small,  
For beating the drum she exceeded them all;  
Now she's drum major and carries the sword,  
And appears like a hero, as fierce as a lord.

"As this damsel was bathing in the water so deep  
A soldier from the garrison so softly did creep;  
On the back of the rampart, there he did espy:  
'Is this our drum major?' the soldier did cry.

When out of the water this damsel did come,  
Resolved he was to beat upon her drum;  
'To beat on my drum not practised you'll be;  
By him she was discovered that very same day..."

Well were we in need of cheer. We were leaving a place where we had lived, and fought, laughed and suffered for almost a year - the nearest to a home I had known since leaving Fresh Water.

"Well, I'll be glad to see civilisation again, won't you, fellows?" George sighed.

Will smiled lopsidedly (with the loss of four of his back teeth in his fight with my father, his smile had taken on a permanently wry turn): "I fear I've grown out of custom with it... Philadelphia seems an age ago."

Miles Bordon nodded. He was no longer yellow, but still rather drawn and weary-looking. "I'm hoping they'll let me take ship to New York. My wife tells me the children are growing like corn-shoots... They're in decent lodgings."

"You deserve to go home," agreed Will.

"I'm jes' sorry I never had a chance to get at the Rebels myself, sir," said Skip. "I can ride, and the Major taught me to shoot some..."

"The war here'bouts would have been over sooner if you'd armed the slaves," said I.

Sandy nodded. "But 'tis the Generals and the ministers who make the policy, alas, not ourselves..."

"True," answered Bordon. "'Tis shameful enough that the Opposition condemns the Indians - that we enlist 'heathen savages' against 'fellow Christians'. My brother sends me from the newspapers in England... This, when the only scripture the Crackers seem acquaint with is 'an eye for an eye'... Savages- We know who the savages are!"

"Here's to never seeing another Cracker again! May they rot in hell!" said George, trying to take a swig from his water bottle (which I strongly suspected contained some other liquor), while Sam and Adams butted their furry little heads in the way. They squeaked and chattered as he waved them away. "Bad boys!"

"Rebs rottin' in Hell won't put my man's head back on his shoulders," muttered Deb. I saw Skip squeeze her hand, but she drew back. She was several years his senior, and her heart still sore.

As our train of wagons and marching men headed closer to Charlestown, our numbers were swelled with refugees and slaves from the countryside. I wondered how we would all find shelter and food in the city.

For ourselves, 'twas well enough. Lord Rawdon ensured that Will was lodged at headquarters, in Mrs. Motte's elegant brick mansion. Sandy and myself found rooms with an elderly widow, Mrs. Nichols, over a wigmaker's. She formed the opinion, I fancy, that I was Sandy's bastard daughter - an assumption I was happy for her to retain.

Sadly, we bade farewell to George and to Bordon: the former was ordered to take a sea-voyage in the Caribbean, to recover his strength ("That is, if the French or Spaniards don't make shark-bait of me!" he quipped), while the latter was sent to New York, to be reunited with his wife and young children. It seemed to me then that I should never see them again: the wise foolery of the one, and the quiet common sense of the other had made them valued friends over the year that I had known them.

Hanger took his pets with him, but Scipio was left behind, with a letter of manumission. "The Major say he don't want to risk taking me to the West Indies, lest they press me to a sugar farm," he said. "I'm sure going to miss him, that crazy man."

"I need a valet myself," said Will, "for a wage."

Skip bowed gravely. "I should deem it an honour, sir."

"Good. Then you're hired."

Colonel Balfour, the Commandant of the city, found work for William in his office, to keep his mind active without overtaxing his body. Indeed, there was much to be done: the flow of refugees into the city seemed to grow with the passage of weeks and months. His staff appointment meant that Will was obliged to relinquish his brevet Lieutenant-Colonelcy of the Legion - a rank to which Tarleton, away on campaign with Lord Cornwallis, was elevated - and return to his permanent rank as Major.

It was not easy for us to adjust to thinking of him thus. But with Sandy and I, Poll and Deb working in the hospitals, we saw less and less of him, especially after Lord Rawdon - who had meanwhile ridden to the relief of Fort Ninety-Six - was sent home for his health in late July.

This gave me pain. At first I chided myself for my foolishness in entertaining any hopes, founded on his promises during his sickness. But as the weeks passed, he would come calling, gentleman-like, bearing news from headquarters and a gift for our landlady - perhaps a joint of meat, or some good wine, something hard to obtain in those days, to turn a plain dinner into a feast. He looked most elegant and handsome in his staff-officer's uniform, his unpowdered hair pinned in side-curls, and his long legs shown to better advantage in white stockings and silver-buckled shoes than in boots. He was still too thin and stoop-shouldered for health, but he would protest at any show of concern.

"I have no time to be sick now," he said. "Betwixt you and me, Balfour is desperate for steady men to assist him."

"And if you drive yourself too hard, he'll be needing another!" I warned him, only half-joking.

He laughed. "With _paperwork_? Can you imagine it? The 'Scourge of the Santee' -'The Butcher of the Carolinas' - spends most of his waking hours behind a desk, steadily working his way through the plumage of every goose in the Carolinas writing requisitions- I can't wait until I'm fit for active service again..." And he added, with typical straight-faced wit: "And neither can the _geese_, I imagine..."

"How are your ribs?" asked Sandy, as I poured the tea.

Will drew lines on the hearth rug with the silver-topped cane he had taken to carrying since we had come to Charlestown - from necessity, rather than fashion. "I still need the strapping... Just aches and pains. It's all this sitting bent over papers..."

"And your arms?"

"- There's nothing wrong with my arm. 'Twas merely a flesh-wound - healed better than anything else."

"I meant, how far can you raise them?"

He glanced away. "There is some improvement. I can feel it. Anyway," - and he changed the subject abruptly - "I have some word of an old acquaintance... Augusta, this may be of interest to you..."

He drew a folded newspaper cutting from his waistcoat pocket. "From a Rebel paper, some weeks ago."

I peered at the small print, the ink somewhat rubbed, and read aloud: "Colonel Benjamin Martin, of Fresh-Water, and Mrs. Selton, of Selton Hall and late of Charles-town, were married 20th ult."

"So your father's still alive..." Sandy muttered.

"Or he was then. Perhaps 'twas a deathbed marriage," I said optimistically. "Always figured he'd take Missus Charlotte into his bed. She's been making sheep's eyes at him for years. She look like her sister the old Missus did, before she got fat from too much child-bearing. A pity we never burned her along with her fine house..."

"His deceased wife's sister- I doubt that's _legal_!" observed Will.

Sandy shrugged. "I doubt any preacher would dare nay-say him!"

"'Tis my mother that I fear for, if she still be living..." I sighed.

In truth, my heart despaired for her, envisaging her again being subject to the whims of another respectable white wife; wondering whether she still loved my father after all this... Would he still come to her at night, a scarred old man to a tired old woman, out of habit of use? Or was there some pert young maidservant of Mrs. Selton's to take her place warming his bed, who wouldn't fret none over his manners and his moods the way a high-bred white lady does? And I wondered whether that would always be the fate of a woman of colour where a white man's desires were concerned. The thought made me uneasy at the gentle glances and shy smiles Will cast to me across the small parlour.

Later, after Will had returned to headquarters, Sandy told me "he had his reasons to come here today."

"To take tea, as usual, away from the office?"

"He... he seeks my permission to pay court to you."

"What?"

"Because I stand as a father to you, he has formally sought my consent."

I scarce knew whether to laugh or cry.

"What is it, lassie? You love him, as he loves you!"

"But what can come of it, Sandy? Naught to the honour of either of us!"

"He _is_ an honourable man, Augusta. You ken that as weel as I."

"I can be his mistress, and lose _my_ honour, or be his wife, and ruin _his_. And I know how much he needs his honour - how much he needs to make his family name respected again... And I need mine, too, for I won't be what my mother was - what she maybe still is."

"If I thought he had _tha_t in mind, I should not have let him speak o't."

"There's nothing else he _ca_n have in mind, unless he's happy enough with hand-holding," I smiled bitterly.

"Rather than lose you, I rather think he would be," Sandy said sadly.

For part of that summer we were in the midst of a troublesome case involving a Rebel militia Colonel Hayne, who had broken parole and was suspected of spying. When the man was hanged early in August, the enemy of course pronounced foul play, but since, as both Colonels Balfour and Lord Rawdon averred, the procedure little differed from that used by them in the affair of André, they had scant grounds for complaint.

"They wish one law for themselves, and another for us," Will said. "Besides, I have no doubts that the other fellow - this Williamson whom we retrieved when he was captured - still works for the enemy, despite his claims to the contrary. He'll be watched, and closely."

And unlike the case of Wilkins, this time Will took no chances. If Andrew Williamson believed his correspondence with Colonel Laurens was a secret, 'twas because it was convenient to allow him to continue in that delusion. He provided us very good service, without intending it.

Meanwhile, some of the Loyal planters - Cousin 'Delia and her fat husband Simms among them - had begun to take ship for the West Indies. They took with them their slaves - or any unfortunate Black they could lay their hands on, slave or free. Sandy warned me, and Deb and those of us left from Fresh Water, to avoid the streets after twilight, without the protection of a white colleague, lest we be sent off in chains. The cotton and tobacco plantations, and even the rice fields and mills, are easier than the sugar estates of the islands, where the climate and disease are as much a foe as the boiling vats and the lash. But the army could do nothing, for it was felt in many quarters that the Loyal planters deserved to be compensated for the loss of slaves taken by the Rebels - even with the lives of slaves whom the army had itself freed.

Will wrote to his mother of it. She would write to Mr. Sharp, he said, though it appeared from her correspondence that there had been some discord betwixt them, on account of Sharp's opposition to our war. From the letters of hers which Will had occasionally shared with Sandy and myself, I had formed a distinct impression of Mrs. Hester Tavington: a lady of strong will and firm religious principles - perhaps intimidatingly so. But Will loved her dearly, and he was evidently her favourite son: "God preserve you, my D:rst boy, from harm. My heart is so far at ease by the Gazette returns on yr Account. But what must so many Mothers feel - poor Ferguson and André's among them!" she had written in February, ere she had seen the returns of killed and wounded from Cowpens. Will received it in August.

Doubtless she would have been extremely uneasy had she realised how anxious Will was to be fit to serve in the field again. At least while his ribs were strapped, he could deceive himself that it was the tightness of the linen that limited his movements. When he finally chose to do without the bandages' support, the extent of the scarring had to be faced.

It was the report of the desperately fought and costly victory at Eutaw Springs which brought him to us at home one evening, rather than to the hospital. The bayonet-wound in his shoulder was still troubling him, he said. I prepared a flannel compress soaked in hot salt water while he undressed to the waist. His long, slender fingers unbuttoned his white waistcoat. Awkwardly he removed it; awkwardly likewise he drew his coarse linen shirt over his head.

The scar just below the collarbone was swollen and discoloured, a blue-ish purple blister beneath thin, papery skin. It was going to break open again, I could tell by the look of it. This happens often enough with stab-wounds from sword or bayonet. His breast and flanks were ridged and puckered where Smith and I had stitched and seared his wounds that long, terrible night in January. He tried to raise his right arm, but could get it no higher than his shoulder; nor could he turn easily at the waist.

"It will become easier, will it not?" he asked Sandy.

"Perhaps, with gentle exercise, rubbing..." Sandy answered cautiously.

"'Perhaps'?" Why 'perhaps'?" he snapped.

"Patience, lad..."

"I've _been_ patient for almost nine months. I need to know if I'm going to be able to wield a sabre again! Young Jack Coffin's winning laurels at every turn, and Tarleton too, I daresay..."

"- Not that you're jealous?" I interjected teasingly.

"Why, no... It's merely that... If I'm to salvage my career, my family's esteem... I'm thirty-four already. Younger men, in better health, stand greater chance of preferment - understandably so, but... I would like my chance again."

Sandy sighed. "William, as a friend - and as a doctor - this is not easy..."

Will stared at him, his eyes wide and earnest: "You mean 'No', do you not?"

"You were carved up like Mistress Nichols' Sunday roast, lad. The muscles are scarred deep. Their strength is returning, and 'tis my hope they will work freer, but the weight of a sabre and the movement needed to make the cuts... I am sorry, laddie. So very sorry..."

"So my cavalry career is over?" He braced himself as I laid the compress over his collarbone.

Sandy nodded, silent.

"Damnation..." Will muttered under his breath.

I leaned my head close to his. He glanced at me from the corner of his eye, and tried to smile, though 'twas more of a grimace. "That flannel's rather hot, you know..."

The blister burst, and the dark, dammed-up blood soaked into the cloth beneath my hand.

"And how long will _this_ go on..?" he asked, endeavouring not to wince while Sandy cleaned the wound with salted water.

"As long as it takes for whatever debris is stuck in the depths of the wound to work its way up so we can reach it," the doctor answered, peering into the hurt. "Weeks, months - decades even."

"If I don't get blood-poisoning, eh?"

"You'll be all right," I said softly, as I dressed the wound. "After so much, I - we - ain't going to lose you!"

"I love you," he whispered.

I flinched.

Autumn was a grim time, as I recall, with smallpox and the ague stalking the city. The refugees were dying by the dozen, and the hospitals were crowded. When the news finally came from Yorktown that Lord Cornwallis had surrendered to the French and Washington, rumours ran wild around the hospital, as if our own destruction were upon us. I ran home, ahead of Sandy. When I arrived, Mrs. Nichols's only servant, her housekeeper Martha, was making tea. "There's your young gentleman waiting to see you, Miss 'Gusta: Major Tavington. I've shown him into the parlour." (It seemed strange to me still, to be addressed as "Miss" by a woman who reminded me of my own mother, but as Sandy's ward, such was my state.)

Will was sitting on the window seat, gazing down into the street when I entered. He turned his head. His face was pallid in the candlelight. I wondered if his shoulder was troubling him again.

"Are you ill?"

"No... Not exactly. This day's news..."

"Does it mean the war is over?" I asked.

"No," said he. "Sir Henry still has the army in New York... It depends whether the government lets him use it or no."

"But they cannot abandon us! Not after all these years, all these lives!"

"It depends on Parliament... There are men there who will be rejoicing at this, even over the corpses of their own countrymen... They may decide that the sugar islands are more valuable, and sue for peace with the French and Spaniards..."

"But what will become of us? The Loyal people? The slaves?"

"God knows... We _can_ fight on, if the Navy supports us, even if it's just a matter of buying time... We still hold some major ports: New York, Wilmington, Savannah, here... There's Florida, too... And the militia are still game - If anything, this news should put fire in their bellies... The brass may even let us arm the Blacks now! But - Augusta, I came here to tell you... _You_ mustn't be afraid..."

"What do you mean?"

Will gazed at me earnestly, taking my hands in his. "Whatever happens, you have nothing to fear. I will not let any harm befall you or your friends, so far as it lies in my power..."

"But what - how can you ?"

"- You have my word of honour. However hard, however desperate this fight becomes, I will _never_ abandon you. And as I promised you before Cow-pens: you will _always_ have a place at home with my family, whether I live or die."

"As what?" I asked, my fears overwhelming the trust I had in him. My voice began to shake, and the words gushed out. "As a servant, that I can endure; but not as your whore. I love you, but I swear, I will not live as my mother has lived, to be used for pleasure while having to wait on some pretty white wife..."

"Augusta, _I_ swear, I have never thought to make a whore of you! Indeed, I cannot share a bed with..." and he turned his face away, as if to conceal some strong emotion.

"With a _quadroon_?"

"- With one who bears the name of the man who nearly killed me."

"Oh." I dropped on to the seat beside him. "'Tis a name I never wished to bear..."

"However -" and now Will faced me again, his eyes aglow "- it lies within _your_ power to remedy that. While I could not endure sharing my bed - nay, my life - with 'Miss Martin', I - I... should have no objection whatsoever to sharing both with 'Mrs. Tavington'. Hm?"

I blinked in wonder: "You are asking to _marry_ me?"

He blushed slightly, and continued wryly: "Well... I'll not go down on my knee in case I can't get up again, and I'm _not_ going to ask your father for your _hand_ lest, given his repute from Fort Wilderness, he takes me _literally_..."

"Is this simply to protect me in case the worst befalls ? Or do you truly...?"

"How is one meant to phrase it?... Miss Martin - my very dear Augusta - I should be honoured if you would consent to be my wife."

"_Honoured_? Your children will be octoroons -"

"- Octoroons, macaroons, I care not; with luck, some of them may be _dragoons_- Augusta, I'm no great prize, I admit - a battle-scarred old war-horse, with neither fortune nor health, and a reputation which half the papers at home deem little better than Lucifer's - but... Such as I am, will you have me for husband?"

I cupped his face in my hands and drew it down toward mine: "Yes, my dearest love!"

And his mouth was upon my mouth, and our arms about each other, just as Sandy entered the room... We pulled apart. Will's ivory countenance reddened, and I hid my face in the bosom of his shirt. The faint scent of the laundresses' lavender blended with the warmth of his body.

"Pray continue, bairns!" said the doctor. "I jalouse congratulations are in order? If so, I'll ask Martha to fetch some wine!"

And we all laughed. For whatever trials the war might bring, we would have each other.

**Next Chapter:** Marriage and the arrival of new colleagues boost Will's morale.


	16. Wherein Virtue is Rewarded

**16: Wherein Virtue is Rewarded.**

O my America! My new-found-land!  
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann'd. 

John Donne, _Elegies, 19: To His Mistress Going to Bed_, c. 1595

The banns were published for the marriage of "Major Wm Tavington, on Col: Balfour's staff, youngest son of Ralph Tavington, Esqr., deceas'd, of Baldersclough, Lancs., and Miss Martin, daughter to Benj:n Martin, Esqr., of Fresh Water, South Carolina."

Despite - or perhaps because of - the afflictions and tribulations visited on our cause in those times, we were not the only pair in Charlestown to wed in the wake of Lord Cornwallis' surrender. Jack Coffin, the Yankee Captain of the New York Dragoons, had married Miss Anne Mathewes on 24 October. If the story be true that she had concealed him from Rebel raiders beneath her very petticoats, then for her reputation's sake 'twas as well done quickly.

"Martin's daughter? I thought she was just a child...?" I heard one elegant matron mutter, as I went to the milliner's for combs to dress my hair.

"A natural daughter, not the other one," said the new Mrs. Coffin, who was admiring a muslin dormeuse on its stand.

"Not that that would surprise. But the mother must be of good family..."

"I do hear tell she was a Drayton. They must have kept it mighty quiet all these years."

Aye, I thought, _mighty_ quiet: a thing not spoken of among the proud planter families, although there was not one of them that did not do it. I ground the shop floor with the painted heel of my shoe, thinking of my mother, naked on the auction-block at thirteen, sold by her own father to Daniel Martin; given by him, once she'd ripened, to his wild-natured son for sport...

Strange it is that the word they call her is Spanish for 'mule', when everyone knows that mules are barren. And what is a 'quadroon' but only one-quarter of a person? As if the only portion that of them that counts is the slave portion, not the whole! For that fragment of myself, I had served my own blood kindred, and feared them, and hated them, and endured their scorn. I had smiled and bobbed and "Yes, sir" and "Yes'm" and "Master" and "Missy"ed them, knowing that the three-quarters of me to which they closed their eyes was the same as them, but that one small quarter's difference bound us to our stations. But now I was quiet, not from shame, but from a feeling of secret triumph.

At the hospital, Deb sounded almost bitter. "I reckon this mean we won't be seein' you down here no more, if you're to be an officer's lady."

I had been so concerned with my own apprehensions, that - to be honest - I had given scant thought to my dealings with my friends. "I daresay the Major won't mind."

"Honey, it won't look right," said Poll, glancing up from the cauldron of rice gruel she was stirring. "You've got to think on that, for his sake as well as yours!"

"You get up and out if you can," continued Deb. "It's like your mother always say. Can't all do that."

I sensed resentment in her tone. I was not sure if she regarded me, in some way, as defecting from our shared past; or perhaps my impending marriage merely sharpened the distinctions which had always lain between us - between house-slave and field-slave, and between those whose colour permitted a crossing into the world of the masters, and those who could not.

But that was not of my choosing. All I had done was to choose the new life my mother had indeed once told me to seize, given the chance. It was no fault of mine if the man I loved had been one she turned so fierce against, despite all we owed him. At least he saw me for my own qualities, not for whatever name others placed on me as if I were some hybrid botanical specimen from his sketchbook.

"'Sides," said Poll, "We're both a-courtin' now, ain't we? Deb has Skip, and me, well, there's a pretty young Lieutenant I found myself..."

"A Lieutenant?" I smiled. "Ain't that a bit low for you?"

She shrugged. "I take what I find. There's no-one to match my poor Major... And I think this one's the marryin' sort. You'll see if I can't play him."

It would have been foolish to ask if she loved him. Sometimes the longing for a safe harbour burns stronger than any desire, and is oftimes a sounder cornerstone for marriage than the fire of lust. Poll needed a man who would take her back to Britain; who would put a roof over her head; who would give her a new, respectable life in a country where none would know what she had become. My own impending marriage offered similar promise of security, and was as much grounded in reason and good sense as in what poets please to call love.

And yet the thrill of expectation regarding our marriage was beyond words. Betimes I could scarce bring myself to believe it. My mother's curse on William I believed we had overcome; but there still remained the threat of my father, whom we now knew to be alive. I was troubled by dreams that at the moment objections were sought from those assembled, a bloodied figure in rags would arise, crying: "That's Ben Martin's yellow girl! She can't marry with anyone!" And who should he be but my Master himself, or betimes the Young Master, though I knew him to be a mouldering corpse in the ground.

I told Will, when he came to take tea with me at Mrs. Nichols', unchaperoned. (Our marriage was so near that scant damage to my character could be done, even had any dishonour passed between us, but assuredly it did not.)

He said I should not be so foolish: "You're a free woman. Beyond our old circle from Camden, who will know who or what you are? Certainly no-one in England is likely to care."

"How may you be certain of that?"

He drew me close to him as we sat beside each other on the couch, so that I might lean my head against his weak shoulder. "Because, if anything, my dear, you are getting the worst of this match: you, the grand-daughter of a Drayton, and I, the youngest son of a suicide, and brother to a pair of broadcloth makers!"

"But still... the Master - "

"- Can go to the Devil. In the eyes of the law, he has no more claim over you. After we are married, only I do... and in _quite_ a different way..." He stroked my neck, and brushed his lips against my hair. "You proved where your loyalties lay at the Cow-pens. You made your choice, and I am, for eternity, your debtor..."

I smiled. "I guess we're just about even. But still, I cannot think your family -"

"Mother knows how to handle Hugh and Bob. Izz is her right-hand woman. Kate's husband is, like your father, Huguenot, so there's no novelty on his account, at least. I am not sure how much Mother has said, or how much she'll tell her family, though: the Shawforths felt themselves much shamed when my father..." Will's voice trailed off. Then he forced a smile, although his eyes were downcast. "I like to think _he_ would have liked you."

"Your father?"

"Yes. I wish... Do you know, I have tried to hate him sometimes, almost as much as you hate yours - but I cannot. He was feckless, foolish with money, but - not wicked. And I thought he loved us, until... 'Twas a cowardly act: but cowards are not always bad men."

"You spoke of it at times, when you were raving with fever."

"Did I- Well, that's no wonder. I was there when the servants forced the lock on the library. He had come back from London the previous night, in a grim mood. He drank a lot of brandy, went to bed without a word to anyone. Mother took us riding on the moor that morning, but my pony cast a shoe, and I insisted on going home, on my own. They found him sitting at his desk... He had put the pistol in his mouth.

"He had written a letter, apologising. Mother would not have anyone bear false witness at the inquest - rather scandal than perjury. As a gentleman, he was spared the crossroads and the stake, but got no religious service. But she did bribe the sexton to put him in the family vault. She gave him her wedding ring."

"I am so sorry, Will..."

He shrugged. "I've seen worse since I came over here. Done much worse myself. As a matter of fact, that's why I didn't mind Mother's family buying me my first commission to get me off their hands. I knew I could stomach the bloodshed. So you could say that it is thanks to my father that we met!"

"He would be proud of you," I said.

"Proud of 'The Butcher'?"

"Proud that you're no coward, but a braver man than he could be."

He smiled and shook his head as if to himself: "I was a coward at Pembroke when I let Wilkins and my own vanity make murder... You see what you are marrying into?"

I answered him with a kiss.

There was a knock on the door: it was Martha, bearing a letter on a tray.

"Beggin' your pardon, miss, Major - a military gentleman left this for the you, Major, sir."

She brought it to him. He broke open the seal and read over the letter silently.

"Not bad news?"

"It depends on your definition: there is to be a reception at headquarters next week to welcome General Leslie and some of the newly-arrived officers. Balfour insists we attend," he said grimly.

"_We_?"

"'Tis one of the obligations of being an officer's lady. If _I_ get subjected to these hellish outbreaks of hospitality, so do _you_."

"The General thinks well of you, don't he?"

"Indeed, but..."

"You could plead your shoulder," I suggested.

"I durst not. Some might think the worst: that I am past my usefulness, or, worse, that I am ashamed to show my charming fiancée in public. Which, by the by, is quite impossible," and, with his fingertip, he brushed a crumb from the corner of my mouth.

"Do you think you could gain interest by it?"

"Possibly... After all, I was almost dead when Leslie last heard of me. He will at least see that I'm not yet worm's meat... Still I don't relish the idea, but..."

I squeezed his hand. "I will come with you," I said.

I doubt there had been such a fine-seeming gathering in Mrs. Motte's house in the past year, but beneath the surface it was not so grand as it appeared: the food and drink was scarce the best, the air gloomy. The wretchedness of the city, crowded with refugees, bruised in spirit by the surrender of Yorktown, seeped in at the windows and made even the wine taste bitter.

"You can smell the desperation," whispered Sandy, straightening his wig. "However often you change the straw in a hospital, it still stinks... Same with this."

Colonel Balfour introduced us to General Alexander Leslie, a fellow-Scot of about fifty, with a kindly face. "May I humbly present Major Tavington, now on my staff - Doubtless you may recall his service in command of the Legion - And this is his fiancée, Miss Martin."

Will bowed. "At your service, sir."

I dropped a courtesy.

There was something in the set of the general's eyebrows which lent him a look of permanent amusement or mild surprise.1 "You look weel, Tavington! For a while past we feared you were like to die!"

Will looked awkward. "Miss Martin is in no small part responsible... I mean, it is thanks to her and Ensign Jackson that I was brought from the field at the Cow-pens."

"Remarkable! Gallantly done, young lady- Martin, you say? Any kin to that ruffian 'Ghost' that makes such a damnable nuisance of himself?"

Now it was my turn to be discomfited. "He is my father, sir, though I deem his conduct shameful."

"A rose 'mang Rebel thorns, eh?"

I lowered my eyes demurely. "Thank you, sir."

"I'm glad you're here, Tavington: Lord Cornwallis aye said you'd little taste for routs and fandangos, and I cannot blame you- But I've been having a long talk with Colonel Balfour about you."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Anent how we should proceed. Yorktown is surrendered, and with it another army. I'm ordering Craig to evacuate Wilmington, and Sir Henry is in New York. The fate of the Southern provinces rests here in Charlestown, with us."

Will shifted his weight from one foot to the other, like a nervous horse. "Indeed, sir, but my health these past months allows me little chance to make an active contribution..."

General Leslie shook his head. "Far from it! Major, since Lord Rawdon's departure, you know this country, from here to Camden, into the creeks and swamps, better nor most officers still in service, am I right? And I fancy you'd liefer be sharing that intelligence, and putting it to good use, than shuffling sheaves of paper for Nisbet Balfour, would you not?"

I saw a light dawn in Will's eyes.

"Well, sir, I should hope, though I scarce dare... Your interest is most flattering, sir."

General Leslie gestured towards a tall young officer in provincial uniform, who was in conversation with Captain and Mrs. Coffin. "I have high hopes of Colonel Thompson. He's just arrived from New York. A bright spark.2 I have plans for you two, Major."

"Plans, sir?"

"- And I'm interested to know: what is your position anent arming the Blacks?"

"My honest opinion?"

"Aye. Honest."

"With all due respect, sir, I believe it long overdue! Had we taken this course earlier, particularly in these Southern provinces, instead of being governed by fears about the Loyal planters and West Indies -"

Leslie raised his hand in a silencing gesture. "That's all I desire to hear, Major."

Will drew back, with the pride-stung look which I associated with the many times he had been chided by the Lord General. "You disapprove? I do understand, sir, that it is an opinion some do not share -"

"- I did _not_ say I disapproved, Tavington.3 Ben Thompson's from Massachusetts, like young Coffin, but he's been cloistered in the Colonial Office in London these past few years, talking politicks and diplomacy. I jalouse he's itching for action, as you must be. He has ideas - _interesting_ ideas. But scant local knowledge. Think on it, Major!" said the general, clapping him on his weak shoulder (he winced). "Think on it!"

He then went over to the Coffins and Thompson, and exchanged a few words with them. The next we knew, I had been cornered by Anne Coffin, while the officers got into a discussion about the effectiveness of cavalry in the Carolina countryside. While I cannot, at these many years' distance, recall the details of Mrs. Coffin's conversation on the latest modes in heads and gowns, I do recollect hearing William's clear voice and Thompson's nasal New England accent rising above the general murmur:

"- Indeed."

"- Yes, I agree with you entirely."

"- Of course."

"- That's precisely what I meant!"

"- Yes."

"I should be honoured, sir," said William, and turned back to me, his face bright with excitement: "Augusta - this is Lieutenant-Colonel Benjamin Thompson. He has generously offered me an opportunity to escape my desk."

The younger officer (he was about my own age, withpowdered redhair and strong, not uncomely features) clicked his heels and bowed. "We need more cavalry. Maybe not great numbers, but better cavalry," he said. "Dragoons. Small units, that can move fast and hit the Rebels on the run. There's only one man I'd trust to train them up, Miss Martin." And he nodded to Will.

"But will Colonel Balfour give you leave, William?" I asked.

He smiled. "If he wants to keep in General Leslie's favour. And I daresay he knows my heart's not in clerking!"

Thompson grinned. "I understand that you're still haunted by _ghosts_ in these parts, Major: a strange and rare affliction in these enlightened times- Shall we drink to an _exorcism_?"

For the first time in many months, I saw the spirit and fire of old in Will's eyes, in his bearing.

"To future collaboration," he said.

The wine in his glass glinted like blood.

"Yes," I said, and joined the toast.

On Saturday, 17th November, William and I were married simply at headquarters, by Colonel Balfour. Sandy stood in father's place, and I have not seen a man weep so at a wedding! But he said 'twas from joy and for sorrow that he had missed his own daughter 'Phemie's wedding a year past in Edinburgh. And our new friend Lieutenant Colonel Thompson was groom's-man.

Since William was wearing his dress uniform, he had submitted to the ordeal of Skip powdering his hair. In consequence, he sneezed his way through most of his vows. He looked handsome and happy - indeed, almost as fair and gallant as when I had first seen him ride as an avenging angel to Fresh Water. Eilidh MacRae, who attended me, had dressed me in the gown I had worn for the garden party at Middleton Place. How long ago that seemed, and how sorely missed were some friends we had lost since then...

Will jested how Pat Ferguson, given his powers as Inspector of Militia, would have wished to perform the ceremony himself (but he said this out of Colonel Balfour's earshot, for they had not been on good terms). And we would dearly have loved the faithful Captain Bordon to be present: but him, at least, we knew to be lodg'd safe with his family in New York.

We received a number of small gifts from our friends and acquaintances. Colonel Balfour gave me a copy of Richardson's _Pamela_, which I must confess I regarded as a little _too_ pointed a gesture. Fielding's parody is far superior, in any case.4

We dined at our new lodgings, close to headquarters, with Sandy, old Mrs. Nichols, Polly, and Ben Thompson. When it was time for the candles to be lit, we retired, with cups of warm spiced wine. The bedchamber was small and dark, almost filled by the blue-curtained bed.

"Why do they carve sheaves of rice here?" Will asked me, fingering one of the decorated bed-posts.

"It means harvest, I guess," I replied. "Good crops and many children."

He laughed: "Let us hope so!"

I brushed the pomade and powder from his long dark hair. Then, half in eager rush, half in slow savouring, we began to undress each other.

I was not falsely coy or timorous. I knew what to expect bodily from the ruttings of my own parents, even as I had tried to stop my ears with the pillows in the garret. I already knew every inch of my husband's body from the slow weeks and months of nursing him. In truth, that was no blessing, for I had to force from my mind the memories stirred by his scars: memories of his pain, of the journey from the Cow-pens, the rain beating down on the wagon, and he near biting through the belt between his teeth... He had begun to regain some of the weight he had lost, but he was marked for ever. I caressed the ridged and puckered skin on sides which had once been smooth, on his breast and shoulder. My eyes filled with tears, for those were proofs of his courage, and made his life all the more precious to me.

"You mustn't cry, Augusta..."

"I love you so much, honey..."

"And I you, my dearest, dearest love. But I won't break, you know." And he drew me closer to him, his mouth upon my mouth, hungry for me.

And so, as the candles guttered down, we held each other within the close-curtained darkness. I lay in the arms of my husband and he was mine and I was his in body and in soul, in strength and tenderness:

_And what was done there, I will never declare,  
But I wish that short night had been seven long year._5 

I awoke to find my head lying against his breast, and nestled into the warmth of him. He opened his eyes, and smiled drowsily. "'O my America! my new-found-land...'" he murmured. "Good morning, Mrs. Tavington!"

And I rejoiced at last to have a name I could own without shame.

**Next Chapter:** Will's confidence is restored, and an old enemy's is dented.

**Notes:**

**1.** General Leslie's look of amused surprise is apparent from his portraits as a young man by Ramsay and from the immediately post-war period by Gainsborough. Alexander Leslie (1731-94) was the son of Alexander, 5th Earl of Leven, 4th of Melville, by his second wife Elizabeth Monypenny. He joined the army in 1753, with a brief period of service in the Marines, and by 1768 was Lieutenant-Colonel of the 64th Regiment, stationed in Boston. As Major-General, he served extensively in the Southern Campaigns and supervised the evacuation of Savannah and Charleston towards the end of the war. He returned home in poor health. Major-General of the Army in Scotland 1782. He had married Mary Tullidelph in 1760, but she died the following year in childbirth, leaving a daughter, Mary Anne. He never remarried.

**2. **Benjamin Thompson (1753-1814), internationally renowned physicist, diplomat and Loyalist cavalry officer, is one of the most extraordinary figures of the War. A scientist from Woburn, Massachusetts, he went to Britain in 1776 and held various administrative posts in the Colonial Office. He came to Charleston via New York in November 1781, and as Lieutenant Colonel of cavalry proved himself an effective and active commander. He returned to Britain in August 1783, and was made Colonel of the King's American Dragoons, retiring on half-pay. he was knighted the following year. He then went to Bavaria, where he served as Minister of War, Minister of Police and Grand Chamberlain. In 1791 he became Count Rumford of the Holy Roman Empire. He developed a non-smoking fireplace in 1796 (the Rumford Roaster), and established the Rumford medals in the Royal Society, similar awards in the American Society of Arts and Sciences, and the Rumford Professorship of Physics at Harvard. He married, and separated, twice: his first wife was a widow much his senior, by whom he had a daughter, and his second wife was the widow of Lavoisier. Something of a ladies' man, he also had a couple of illegitimate children.

**3. **General Leslie's support, late in the war, for the arming of Blacks, was probably more than military expediency. The devout Presbyterian Leslies (distant cousins of the Websters) were heavily involved in various evangelical Christian causes, including the anti-slavery movement. The General's nephew Alexander, Lord Balgonie (later 7th Earl of Leven, 6th of Melville), married Jane Thornton, a member of a merchant family originally from Hull. The Thorntons were cousins of William Wilberforce and active in the 'Clapham Sect' and Abolitionism; they corresponded with the black Bostonian poet Phyllis Wheatley. The Leslies also had a long-standing friendship with Dr. Benjamin Rush, an early anti-slavery campaigner in Pennsylvania, as well as a signatory of American UDI. Rush paid for the gravestone of the General's second nephew, Captain William Leslie, who was killed at Princeton and buried by the enemy at Pluckemin, NJ.

**4.** _Pamela_ is the moral tale of a maidservant who resolutely preserves her virtue against the odds until the besotted Squire B finally agrees to marry her. The moral, however, is somewhat undermined by the tone: the heroine is just as readily interpreted as a calculating gold-digger holding out for marriage to gain social advancement, as an 18C Doris Day character guarding her virtue and autonomy. Regarding parodies, it is uncertain whether Augusta means Fielding's _Joseph Andrews_, purportedly the tale of Pamela's brother, or his even more ribald out-and-out spoof _Shamela_, in which the heroine's virtue is a fraud and she really has several illegitimate children by the other characters! William probably has introduced her to _Joseph Andrews_; but it is possible that, in her eagerness for reading material, she got a copy of _Shamela_ from Georgie Hanger.

**5. **A couplet from the popular 18C song _Rosemary Lane_, about a seduced maidservant:

_This maid being young and foolish, she thought it no harm  
For to lie in the bed to keep herself warm,  
And what was done there, I will never declare,  
But she wish'd that short night had been seven long year._

The phrase recurs in other ballads with sexual content. In 18C pronunciation, the rhyme is a full one, 'year' being pronounced 'yare'.


End file.
